mafia boss and his bride

Under Attack

Episode 7: Under Attack

The clock above the main hall ticked past 12:07 a.m. The headquarters was usually quiet this late—only the hum of servers, the soft click of keyboards from the night shift, and the distant tread of patrols echoing through the corridors. Killian was finishing up a report in his office, his pen hovering over a signature, when the world shuddered.

A deafening roar tore through the ground floor, so violent it rattled the pictures on his wall and sent his pen skittering across the desk. Bright orange fire bloomed up through the floorboards, and thick, acrid smoke billowed upward, choking the air before the first scream even cut through the noise.

Bomb.

The thought hit Killian faster than fear. His blood turned to ice, and for half a second, everything else vanished—reports, plans, threats, years of careful strategy. There was only one name in his head.

Elara.

She’d said she’d stay late to secure the backup servers, wrapping up the final encryption pass on the new safe house registry. She’d been in the west wing’s server room, deep in the building’s core—right where the blast seemed to have hit hardest.

“Hold the perimeter! Check for secondary devices!” he shouted to the guards rushing past his door, already moving at a run. “Get medics to the lobby now!”

He plunged into the smoke, pulling his collar up over his nose and mouth. Shouts echoed all around him—men calling for water, for help, for status checks. Broken glass crunched under his boots, and heat radiated from the lobby like an open oven. A support beam creaked overhead, groaning under the weight of the second floor, and he didn’t slow down. He vaulted over a fallen desk, ducked a shower of falling plaster, and rounded the corner toward the server wing.

The door hung off its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with grey smoke that stung his eyes, but he spotted her instantly.

Elara was on her knees beside the main server racks, coughing so hard her whole body shook, her face streaked with soot and tears. She was dragging heavy fireproof blankets over the stack of backup drives, her hands fumbling but frantic, her hair falling loose over her face. Sparks spat from a melted cable just feet away, and the ceiling tiles above her were sagging.

“Elara!”

He lunged forward, grabbing her arm as she reached for another drive. She flinched, then looked up, her eyes red and wild, but she didn’t pull away.

“Killian—the data!” She gasped between coughs, trying to twist free. “If we lose these backups, we lose everything. Every safe house address, every witness identity, every family we’ve moved to safety—Silas has half the city watching us, if this leaks—”

“Your life matters more than data!” He could hear the second floor cracking now, the sound like splitting bone. When she stumbled, lightheaded from smoke, he didn’t hesitate—he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her back, lifting her clean off the floor.

“Killian, put me down!” she cried, but she wrapped her arms tight around his neck anyway, burying her face against his shoulder as he turned and ran. Debris rained down behind them, heavy chunks of concrete smashing exactly where she’d been kneeling seconds before. The corridor filled with blinding smoke, and he trusted instinct more than sight, dodging burning rubble and broken piping until cool night air finally hit his face.

He carried her straight to the center of the courtyard, well clear of the collapsing wing, before setting her gently on her feet. But he didn’t let go—his hands stayed firm on her shoulders, checking her over frantically for cuts, burns, anything.

She was shaking all over, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and her fingers curled into the front of his jacket so tight her knuckles turned white, like she was afraid if she let go he’d vanish.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Behind them, fire crews roared up the drive, and shouts echoed as teams worked to contain the blaze. But right there, in the quiet space between them, the chaos felt miles away.

“You came for me,” she said finally, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it over the crackle of flames. Her voice was raw, disbelieving. “You didn’t send a guard. You came yourself.”

Killian brushed a streak of ash from her cheek, his thumb lingering against her skin. He’d spent so long keeping everyone at arm’s length, acting like nothing and no one mattered more than the work. But watching that ceiling come down where she’d stood—he’d never felt fear like it.

“I’d come for you anywhere,” he said, and there was no hesitation, no fine print, no guard up in his voice at all. “Anytime. No matter what. Always.”

Elara looked up at him, and for the first time, she didn’t look away. The sharp, guarded look in her eyes softened, just a little, and the walls she’d built so high around herself seemed to waver, just like his had. All the arguments, the stubborn standoffs, the careful distance they’d both kept—none of it mattered, not when the world was burning and they were still standing together.

Somewhere nearby, Elias called out that the fire was contained, that no one was critically hurt. But Killian barely heard him. He just held Elara’s gaze, and knew—with absolute certainty—that he’d walk through a hundred burning buildings, face a thousand bombs, before he’d ever let anything happen to her.