Page 73 of Deadly Alliance
The question flashes through my mind, bright and startling amidst the chaos. A month ago, I would have prayed for these walls to crumble. I could have hidden in the vault. I could have thrown my hands up, surrendered to the Russians, and told them I was just a captive bride. They might have used me as a hostage, but they wouldn't have killed me.
But I didn't run. I didn't surrender. I am kneeling on a floor covered in shattered stone, firing a weapon until my ears ring and my hands blister, bleeding for men who aren't even my blood.
Because they arehismen.
Because this ishishome.
The realization washes over me, profound and undeniable. I am fighting because I love Cassio Vellutini with a devastating, completely consuming devotion. I am fighting because I refuse to let him return to a broken house. I am laying down my life to protect his legacy, because his legacy is now my own.
"They are bringing up heavy explosives!" a guard shouts from below, his voice cracking with panic.
I peek over the railing. Three mercenaries are hauling a heavy canvas bag toward the base of the glass staircase, providing cover for each other. If they blow the stairs, they will collapse the entire second-floor landing and bury Dante and me in the rubble.
"Dante, the stairs!" I scream, pointing down.
Dante shifts his aim, but his rifle clicks empty. He curses, dropping behind the marble to reload.
The mercenary at the front unzips the canvas bag, pulling out a cylindrical charge.
I don't hesitate. I stand up entirely, exposing myself to the foyer. I brace my arms, sighting down the barrel of the Glock, and fire three rapid shots.
The first bullet shatters the glass step next to the man. The second catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. The third strikes the heavy canvas bag just as he drops it.
I don't know what was inside, but the resulting explosion is catastrophic.
A blinding wall of fire erupts at the base of the staircase. The shockwave knocks me completely off my feet, throwing me backward onto the hardwood floor of the corridor. The blast deafens me, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears as smoke violently billows up to the second floor.
I lie on my back, gasping for breath, the ceiling is spinning above me. My vision blurs.
"Signora!" Dante’s muffled voice cuts through the ringing. Hands grab my shoulders, pulling me into a sitting position.
I blink away the dust. Dante is covered in soot, a cut bleeding freely down the side of his face, but he is grinning. It is a feral, bloodthirsty smile.
"You blew their charge," Dante pants, hauling me up to my feet. "The stairs are gone, but the blast took out half their assault team. They are retreating!"
I lean heavily against the wall, coughing up plaster dust, my hands still gripping the gun with a white-knuckled intensity. I look over the edge of the ruined balcony. The surviving Russians are scrambling backward, dragging their wounded out through the shattered front doors, fleeing into the storm.
We held the line.
I slide slowly down the wall until I am sitting on the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The adrenaline crash is sudden and brutal, leaving me shaking uncontrollably. I drop the gun beside me, pressing my dirty, trembling hands over my face.
We survived the diversion. The estate is secure.
But as the sirens begin to wail in the distance, a new, agonizing terror grips my heart, squeezing until I can barely draw a breath.
If Volkov sent thirty men here just to keep us busy... what kind of hell is waiting for Cassio at Pier Seven?
I stare into the smoke-filled corridor, the tears finally falling, praying to a God I am recently familiar with.Bring him back to me. Please, just bring my monster home.
28
Cassio
The freezing rain slicing across Pier Seven feels like needles against my face.
I stand behind the rusted shell of a shipping container, my customized 1911 gripped tightly in my left hand. My right arm hangs uselessly in its sling, a fresh, hot dampness spreading across the thick bandages beneath my shirt.
The peace summit was a snare, exactly as I predicted. But Volkov severely underestimated the paranoia of a man with something to lose.
