Chapter 9 - The Confession in the French QuarterLuca didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second.
With the speed of a striking panther, he wrapped his arm around my waist, tackled me to the ground, and shielded my entire body beneath his broad frame as a second rifle round tore through the dirt where we had been standing.
“Stay down, Nora!” he commanded, his voice steady even as adrenaline flooded the air.
Across the water, three muzzle flashes lit up the dark swamp brush.
It was Marco Bellini’s loyalist security detail—four rogue mercenaries who had refused to accept the council’s decree, attempting one final, desperate assassination to wipe out both Luca and the legal heir to the riverfront.
Luca drew a custom black Kimber .45 from his shoulder holster.
Without rising, he calculated the distance across the sixty-foot canal, tracking the flash of the lead shooter’s weapon.
Two deafening shots rang out from Luca’s sidearm.
Across the canal, a scream tore through the sawgrass, followed by the heavy splash of a body collapsing into the muddy water.
Dante and four tactical enforcers swept around the levee flank in a motorized swamp skiff, their heavy automatic shotguns roaring in synchronized bursts.
Within ninety seconds, the gunfire stopped.
The heavy silence of the swamp returned, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the ripple of the disturbed water.
Dante walked up the bank, his shotgun resting across his shoulder.
“Clear, boss. Bellini’s private security chief, Julian Cross. He had fifty thousand dollars in unmarked bonds in his vest and a passport for Panama.”
Luca slowly helped me to my feet, his hands checking my arms, my face, and my shoulders with urgent, tender precision.
“Are you hurt, Nora?” he asked, his dark eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness.
“I’m fine, Luca,” I breathed, clutching his forearms to steady my trembling knees. “I’m completely fine.”
Luca looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my face as if searching for something he had lost years ago.
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He pulled me against his chest, wrapping both arms around me in an embrace so fierce and unshakable that every ounce of fear vanished from my spirit.
“Nobody will ever threaten you again,” he whispered into my hair. “I swear it on my father’s grave.”
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