Chapter 8 - Smoke and Ashes
Peace in the Castellano empire, however, was never meant to last without a final trial by fire.
It was 2:00 AM two weeks later when the automated security alarms of the estate shrieked to life.
Red emergency strobes flashed through the hallways of the master suite.
Dominic bolted awake, his hand instinctively reaching for the Sig Sauer P226 resting on his nightstand. He rolled out of bed, his eyes scanning the security monitors built into the wall.
The perimeter gates had been breached. Three black SUVs had rammed the front security checkpoint, and armed mercenaries—professionals, wearing unmarked tactical gear—were swarming the grounds.
“Clara,” Dominic commanded, turning to the bed. “Get up. Now.”
Clara was already awake, sliding out from under the duvet, her expression calm and hardened by survival. “Who is it?”
“Remnants of Vincent’s crew combined with hired guns from out of state,” Dominic said, pulling a tactical vest over his black shirt. “They want the house. They want us.”
“We have the safe room in the library,” Clara said quickly, moving toward the door.
“No,” Dominic said, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers with fierce determination. “They’re using thermite charges. The safe room won’t hold against heavy ordinance. We’re heading for the private boat slip on the lake.”
Gunfire cracked outside. Glass shattered downstairs. The heavy scent of smoke began to drift up through the grand staircase.
They moved fast, darting through the dark corridors of the east wing. Dante and four elite security operatives met them at the top of the stairs, laying down suppressing fire toward the foyer below.
“Boss! They’ve taken the ground floor!” Dante shouted over the roar of automatic gunfire. “We need to get to the roof or the docks now!”
Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the west wing.
A fiery blast tore through the upper hallway, sending a wall of choking black smoke and searing heat rolling toward them.
Clara coughed, her breath catching in her throat. The smoke... it was too thick. The heat was too intense.
Flames flickered along the wooden wainscoting of the hallway, trapping them against the edge of the burning wing.
For a fraction of a second, Clara froze. The memories of the warehouse fire fifteen years ago slammed into her mind—the suffocating smoke, the falling beams, the terror of being trapped in the dark.
Her knees buckled.
Dominic caught her before she hit the floor.
He didn't panic. He looked down at her pale face, saw the terror in her eyes, and remembered the little girl he had tried to save in the ash.
“Look at me, Clara,” Dominic ordered fiercely, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Look at my eyes.”
Clara forced herself to focus on his face through the stinging smoke.
“You survived the fire once,” Dominic vowed, his voice rising above the roar of the flames. “And I’ll be damned if I let it take you now. I’ve got you.”
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With a surge of adrenaline, Dominic swept her up into his arms, carrying her effortlessly against his chest as Dante and the guards cleared a path through the smoke toward the emergency exterior stairwell.
They burst out onto the cold, rain-swept stone terrace overlooking Lake Michigan, leaving the burning wreckage of the estate behind them as the night sky lit up in orange and gold.
