Page 72 of Claimed Through Deception

Emergency alarms shriek to life, a piercing, mechanical wail that cuts through the ringing in my ears.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the sharp sting of shattered glass biting into my palms. I draw the Smith & Wesson from the waistband of my trousers in a single, fluid motion, my thumb disengaging the safety.

"Report!" I roar, kicking a fallen chair out of my path.

Enzo pushes himself off the floor, his immaculate suit covered in gray dust. He grabs the tactical radio clipped to his belt, listening intently to the frantic, overlapping shouts of the security detail flooding the encrypted channel. His face turns stark white.

"We have a massive breach," Enzo barks, wiping a smear of blood from a shallow cut on his forehead. "The western service entrance just blew. A catering supply truck bypassed the outer checkpoint and detonated right against the kitchens."

"How the fuck does a rogue truck bypass the fortified gates?" Alessio snarls, racking the slide of his own weapon as he kicks his way through the rubble. "We have men stationed at every access point!"

Enzo presses the earpiece tighter, listening to the chaotic reports. "It was a coordinated inside job. The attackers had the updated clearance codes for the delivery schedule and knew exactly where the surveillance blind spots were. The guards thought it was our scheduled meat delivery."

Who could it be?

The realization strikes my chest with the force of a speeding train.

Gia.

That spiteful, vindictive bitch. I spared her life in the corridor. I showed her an ounce of mercy, banishing her from the territory instead of snapping her neck, and she ran straight to the Falco family to sell the blueprints of my estate. She knew the shift rotations. She knew the delivery schedules. She handed my enemies the exact key they needed to bypass the iron gates.

"They are flooding the ground floor," Enzo warns, pulling a spare magazine from his jacket. "We have at least two dozen armed mercenaries pushing past the rubble. Niccolò, the syndicate protocol dictates immediate evacuation. We need to move you to the subterranean bunker right now."

"Fuck the bunker," I snarl, my blood turning to liquid ice. "Livia is on the second floor."

"You are the Don!" Enzo shouts, stepping in front of the splintered doorway to block my exit. "If you fall, this entire empire collapses! We have guards upstairs to secure her. You need to prioritize the survival of the crown."

I do not hesitate. I grab my Consigliere by the lapels of his ruined suit and shove him forcefully out of my path.

"I am a father first," I roar. "If anyone gets in my way, I will put a bullet in them myself."

I push through the ruined frame of the study doors and step out into the grand rotunda.

The mansion has transformed into a literal war zone. Thick, suffocating smoke obscures the vaulted ceilings. The beautiful marble foyer is littered with debris, the crystal chandelier lying in a shattered, sparkling heap in the center of the floor. Gunfire echoes from the direction of the dining room, a chaotic symphony of automatic rifles and shouted commands.

Three men wearing unmarked tactical gear emerge from the smoke near the library entrance. They raise their rifles, scanning the rotunda for targets.

They do not even have the chance to pull their triggers.

I raise my weapon, and fire three consecutive shots. Two men drop instantly, their skulls violently snapping backward as the hollow-point bullets find their marks. The third man stumbles, clutching his ruined shoulder, and Alessio finishes him off with a ruthless double-tap to the chest from my right flank.

"Move, brother!" Alessio yells over the blaring alarms, covering the rear archway with his gun raised. "I will hold the ground floor. Go get your queen!"

I sprint toward the sweeping mahogany staircase. The polished wood is slick with the blood of my fallen soldiers. I do not feel the agonizing burn in my stitched ribs, nor do I register the chaotic violence erupting in the rooms around me. A singular, blinding focus propels my legs forward. I have to reach her.

A Falco mercenary steps onto the middle landing, aiming a shotgun down the steps.

I do not slow my ascent. I fire a shot into his kneecap, dropping him to the wood with a wet, agonizing scream. I close the distance in two massive strides, driving the steel heel of my boot violently into his windpipe, crushing the cartilage to silence him permanently. I step over his twitching body, reloading a fresh magazine into my weapon without breaking stride.

Enzo covers my left side, neutralizing another threat attempting to flank us from the second-floor railing. My Consigliere takes a grazing bullet to his bicep, the fabric of his suit tearing, but he ignores the injury, pushing forward to match my relentless, aggressive pace.

"They are pushing toward the master wing!" Enzo warns, gesturing to a squad of men disappearing around the corner ahead of us.

I round the corner into the residential corridor, the air here is thick with plaster dust, making it difficult to breathe. The beautiful floral wallpaper is peppered with bullet holes.

I spot the two massive guards I stationed outside Livia’s suite. They are lying motionless on the runner rug, their bodies riddled with gunfire, a testament to their failed attempt to hold the line against an overwhelming force.

A massive, bone-rattling boom shakes the corridor.