Chapter 7 - THE BETRAYAL AT DAWN
Willow bit down violently on the leather-gloved fingers. Marco let out a muffled curse, his grip slipping just enough for Willow to drive her elbow backward into his ribs. She broke free, tumbling down the final three steps into the dimly lit wine cellar, her back crashing against a wooden rack of dusty vintages.
Marco lunged down the stairs, his eyes wild, drawing a silenced pistol from his waistband. "You should have stayed in bed, little girl."
Willow didn't scream. Screaming would bring no one in this soundproofed basement. She grabbed a heavy glass magnum of vintage Cabernet from the rack and swung it with both hands.
The heavy bottle shattered against Marco’s forearm, knocking the pistol from his grip and sending it skittering across the stone floor into the dark corners of the cellar. Dark red wine exploded across his face like arterial blood.
Marco roared in fury, tackling Willow to the stone floor. His heavy hands wrapped around her throat, cutting off her air. Willow clawed at his face, her lungs burning, black spots dancing across her vision.
Plant your feet like concrete.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her dying consciousness.
Willow’s flailing right hand brushed against a jagged shard of the broken wine bottle on the floor. She gripped the glass, ignoring the sharp edge slicing into her palm, and drove it upward into Marco’s shoulder.
Marco screamed, recoiling in pain. Willow rolled out from beneath him, gasping for air, scrambled across the slick floor, and grabbed the fallen pistol.
She raised the heavy weapon with both trembling hands, cocking the hammer back just as Josiah had shown her. "Don't move," she wheezed, her voice raspy from her bruised throat. "Don't you dare move."
Marco froze on his knees, clutching his bleeding shoulder, staring down the barrel of his own gun held by a girl who looked ready to pull the trigger.
Heavy, thunderous footsteps cascaded down the wooden stairs.
Josiah burst into the cellar, an assault rifle leveled, his eyes blazing with feral fury. Behind him were three guards. He took in the scene in a fraction of a second—Marco bleeding on the floor, the broken glass, and Willow holding the gun with deadly resolve, her neck bearing dark purple finger marks.
"Josiah," Willow choked out, lowering the weapon as her knees finally gave out.
Josiah dropped his rifle and caught her before she hit the stone, lifting her into his arms like she weighed nothing. His gaze fell upon the bruises forming around her delicate throat, and an unholy, terrifying darkness consumed his face.
"Marco," Josiah whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
"Boss... she's lying... she attacked me..." Marco stammered, backing away against the wine racks like a cornered rat.
"You put your hands on her," Josiah said, his voice void of any human warmth. He looked at his guards. "Take him to the kennel. Keep him alive until I come down. And strip every man on the perimeter of their comms. We have a leak."
Josiah carried Willow straight to his master bedroom, kicking the door shut and gently placing her onto the massive king-sized bed. He poured a glass of water, his hands visibly shaking with a terrifying mixture of rage and panic.
"Drink," he commanded softly, holding the glass to her lips.
Willow swallowed, her throat burning. "Josiah... the attack... it’s not tomorrow night at the harbor. That’s a trap to draw you away. Moretti’s men are coming tonight, from the river trail. Marco told him the estate would be unprotected."
Josiah’s jaw set into steel. "They won't get within a mile of this house."
Suddenly, a concussive blast rattled the entire foundation of the manor. The lights flickered and died, plunging the compound into eerie red emergency illumination.
An explosion had torn through the south wing—Mia’s playroom.
"Mia!" Willow screamed, throwing the blankets aside and bolting for the door, completely ignoring her pain.
Josiah ran beside her, drawing his weapon. They tore down the smoky hallway toward the east wing, but as they reached the intersection, they saw Dante standing by the shattered garden terrace doors.
Dante had Mia tucked under his arm like a ragdoll. A cloth was pressed over the little girl’s mouth, and she was limp, unconscious from chloroform.
"Dante!" Josiah roared, raising his gun.
"Drop it, Josiah!" Dante shouted, pressing the barrel of a chrome revolver against Mia’s temple. "One twitch and the princess goes to sleep forever!"
Josiah stopped dead in his tracks, his gun frozen in mid-air. His face was gray with an agony no torture could ever inflict. "Let her go, Dante. Take me. Take the whole empire. Let my daughter go."
"Moretti doesn't want the empire, boss," Dante smiled, a grotesque, victorious grin. "He wants to watch you suffer the way he suffered when you killed his brother. And taking your little girl is just the opening act."
Dante backed through the terrace doors into the pouring rain, throwing a smoke canister onto the floor. White, suffocating phosphorus smoke billowed instantly, blinding them.
By the time Josiah cleared the smoke with a burst of rifle fire, the terrace was empty. The roar of a high-powered speedboat echoed from the private river dock below the estate.
Josiah dropped to his knees in the mud of the terrace, a guttural, primal scream of pure anguish tearing from his chest into the stormy night.
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Willow knelt beside him, grabbing his wet, rain-soaked face with both hands, forcing him to look into her burning, unbreakable eyes.
"Get up, Josiah!" she commanded fiercely, her voice cutting through his despair like a razor. "Get up right now! We are going to get your daughter back!"
