Chapter 3 - BULLETS IN THE NURSERY
"Down!"
Rico moved with the speed of a striking viper. Before Clara could even register the sharp crack of the rifle shot or the sudden gust of cool night air rushing through the blown-out pane, Rico’s heavy body slammed into hers, driving her forcefully to the thick wool rug beneath the crib.
His arm was a vice around her shoulders, shielding her head with his chest while his right hand drew his Kimber from beneath his coat. Above them, a second high-caliber round slammed into the wall, obliterating a framed watercolor painting and spraying plaster dust across the room.
Leo woke up instantly, his terrified screams piercing the dark like a siren.
"Leo!" Clara gasped, trying to scramble out from beneath Rico’s suffocating weight to reach the crib.
"Stay down, damn it!" Rico snarled in her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Dante! Southern treeline! Suppressed sniper, third floor!"
The estate’s alarm system shrieked to life, a deafening klaxon that bathed the manicured grounds in pulsing red emergency strobe lights. Heavy gunfire erupted from outside—the sharp, distinct staccato of automatic weapons returning fire into the tree line near the perimeter wall.
Clara ignored Rico's command. Driven purely by adrenaline, she wriggled out of his grip, crawling on her hands and knees through the shards of glass to the crib. She reached up, hauled the sobbing toddler into her arms, and curled her body around him in the tight space between the solid oak bed frame and the reinforced wall.
"I've got you," she whispered over Leo's deafening cries, her own heart hammering violently in her throat as glass bit into her palms. "I've got you, Leo, keep your head down!"
Rico rose into a low crouch, eyes narrowed to predatory slits as he assessed the trajectory of the bullet holes in the plaster. Seeing Clara huddled over his son, using her own flesh as a barrier against incoming fire, something shifted in the depths of his cold gaze. The icy detachment cracked, replaced by a dark, burning intensity.
Dante kicked the heavy oak nursery door open, a submachine gun resting against his tactical vest. "Boss! Two shooters on the ridge. The boys are flushing them out toward the road, but we need to secure the safe room now!"
"Take them alive," Rico ordered, his voice chillingly calm despite the bedlam. "I want to know who authorized a hit with my son in the crosshairs."
"Understood."
Rico turned, striding across the glass-strewn floor and reaching down with one massive hand to pull Clara to her feet, while taking Leo into the crook of his other arm. Leo didn't scream at his father this time; instead, he gripped Clara’s sweater with one hand and buried his face into Rico’s neck, terrified into submission.
"Are you hit?" Rico demanded, his eyes sweeping over Clara’s disheveled form.
"No," she breathed, wiping dust from her forehead, though her hands were visibly shaking. "Just... glass."
"You didn't run for the door," Rico said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling timbre that cut through the blaring siren. "You went for him."
"He’s a baby," she said, her voice trembling with righteous fury. "What kind of monster shoots at a baby?"
"The kind that wants to take my territory," Rico replied darkly, guiding her out into the reinforced hallway as heavy steel blast shutters began sealing over the corridor windows with a dull, hydraulic thud. "The kind that thinks I’ve gone soft because I haven't painted the streets red since Elena died."
They reached the end of the hall, where a seamless panel in the mahogany wall slid open to reveal a heavily reinforced, state-of-the-art panic room equipped with monitors, communications consoles, and medical supplies. Rico gently set Leo down on a leather sofa inside, and the boy immediately reached his arms out toward Clara.
Clara sat beside him without hesitation, letting the little boy climb onto her lap, his small hands clinging to her shirt collar as his breathing slowly leveled.
Rico stood near the steel door, watching them. The harsh fluorescent lights of the safe room caught the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark stubble framing his mouth, and the dangerous, lethal focus in his eyes.
"The offer is off the table, Clara," Rico said softly.
May you like
Clara’s heart dropped. "You're sending me back?"
"No," Rico stepped closer, towering over the sofa, his shadow enveloping them both. "Whoever pulled that trigger tonight saw you in the window. They know you're in this house. If you walk out those gates, you're leverage against me. You stay here, under my roof, under my protection. You don't leave my sight until every single bastard involved in this is six feet under the Hudson."
