Chapter 3: The Broken Fortress
899 Words
The gunfire came in bursts, hammering the armored glass of the SUV. It didn’t sound like bullets. It sounded like hail, except hail didn’t leave spiderweb cracks and the smell of burnt metal.
“Dante, left side!” Julian barked, kicking his door open into the rain. Water hit him instantly, cold and heavy. “Keep it running. If that truck moves, you go through it.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He was already moving, Sig in hand, each shot deliberate, measured. Like he’d done this a hundred times before.
Inside, Clara didn’t breathe. Not really.
Blood was drying on her sleeve. She could still feel it. And Julian’s look earlier — that slow, assessing stare — it was burned into her. He noticed everything. The handprint on the church floor. The way that enforcer had fallen. If he lived through tonight, he’d put it together. He’d see that his quiet, stuttering wife wasn’t quiet at all.
Through the tinted window she watched two Marcone men creep up on the back of the SUV, rifles up. Up front, Julian was pinned by the wheel well, trading fire with a sniper on the bridge above. Outnumbered. Exposed.
Something twisted in her chest.
Five years she’d carried this hatred. Five years of replaying what he’d done to her family, letting it keep her cold and sharp.
But then a bullet sparked off the pavement an inch from his head, and her stomach dropped out.
Not him. Not like this.
Shit. Her hand slid down to the holster strapped to her thigh. A stiletto wouldn’t help from here. She glanced at the driver. His eyes were locked on the windshield, white-knuckled on the wheel.
She moved carefully, reaching across the console. Dante’s spare Glock was sitting right there, careless in the open. Her fingers closed around it and she let it slip into the folds of her tulle skirt, smooth, practiced.
Then the roof caved.
A heavy thud. Then the sunroof exploded inward, glass raining down. A masked Marcone guy dropped through, SMG aimed straight at the driver’s head.
The meek girl was gone.
Clara brought the Glock up and fired twice. Clean. The man jerked and slid off the hood, disappearing into the dark and rain.
The driver whipped around, stunned. “Mrs. Valenti...?”
She dropped the g*n to the floor and curled in on herself, hands over her ears. “I didn’t— it just— it fell and I grabbed it and it went off! Oh God, there’s so much blood!” Her voice broke perfectly. Tears, shaking, the whole mess.
It worked. The driver blinked, thrown.
Before he could say anything else, the back door flew open and Julian collapsed inside, soaked, tuxedo torn, blood on his sleeve that wasn’t his.
“Dante, go! Now!”
Dante fired one last time and dove into the passenger seat. The driver slammed the gas. The SUV roared and hit the semi with a scream of metal. Clara lurched forward, but Julian’s arm came around her waist and yanked her into his chest. He held on as they tore through the barricade and into the night.
For a while there was only breathing. Ragged. Too loud. City lights flashed over the cracked windows and cut across Julian’s face in sharp lines.
He didn’t speak. He just held her, arm locked around her like he thought she’d disappear. His heart was pounding against her cheek.
For one minute Clara let herself lean into it. It was a lie, but it was warm.
Then his hand came up, fingers brushing her jaw, turning her to face him. The warmth was gone. His eyes were ice now.
“The guy on the roof,” he said quietly. Too quiet. “Driver says you shot him.”
Her breath caught. She let her lip tremble. “I—I didn’t mean to. The g*n was just there. I was so scared, Julian. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger, that’s all.”
His thumb dropped to her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting over her pulse. Feeling how fast it was going.
“Two shots,” he murmured. “Center mass. Through a broken sunroof. In the dark. With your eyes closed.”
The air went dead. Dante turned in his seat, hand hovering near his g*n, watching her now like she was a threat.
“You’re either the luckiest woman alive, Clara,” Julian whispered, thumb pressing just enough to remind her what he could do, “or you’re the most dangerous person in this car. And I don’t believe in luck.”
Before she could answer, the SUV swung hard and dove into the underground garage of the Valenti estate. The steel gates shut behind them with a groan, sealing them in.
The car stopped. The rear door opened.
But it wasn’t a guard. It was a doctor, in a blood-stained lab coat, face pale.
“Don Valenti,” he stammered. “New Hope was breached twenty minutes ago. The team we sent for Leo Rossi... they’re dead.”
The world fell out from under her. The tears stopped. The act dropped.
Clara grabbed Julian’s lapels, and for the first time tonight her voice was real. “Where is my brother?”
The doctor looked at Julian first, then back at her.
“He’s gone, ma’am. They took the boy.
- Writer
