Chapter 3 - The Cold Splint and the Loaded BerettaThe darkness in the corridor was thick as oil.
The backup emergency halogens didn't trigger. The Delacroix technicians had bypassed the secondary junction box in the basement, plunging thirty thousand square feet of stone, marble, and oak into an absolute blackout.
Dante didn't reach for a flashlight.
He had lived in this house since he was seven years old. He knew every flagstone, every creaking timber, every architectural blind spot built into the stone foundation by his grandfather during the coastal turf wars of the 1970s.
His right hand held mine, his fingers wrapped firmly around my uninjured wrist, guiding me through the service hallway behind the library.
Behind us, the distant sound of glass shattering echoed from the terrace.
Then the sharp, hollow crack-crack-crack of suppressed automatic gunfire tore through the night air.
I flinched, my injured hand jarring against my hip. A gasp of pure, white-hot pain tore from my throat before I could clamp my lips shut.
Dante halted instantly.
He pulled me into the recessed alcove of an antique linen press, shielding my entire body with his broad frame.
“Breathe,” he commanded in a low, gravelly rasp against my ear.
“I’m fine,” I lied through gritted teeth, my forehead pressed against the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. “I won’t make a sound.”
“If it hurts, hold onto my coat,” he said.
Through the gloom of the gallery, three silhouettes slipped through the shattered French doors. They were moving in tactical formation—night-vision goggles casting faint green halos over their balaclavas, carbines held at the low-ready position.
Mercenaries. Not street muscle.
Julian Delacroix’s personal contract killers from the Montreal waterfront.
“Clear the study,” a man whispered in French. “The target is supposed to be barricaded in the office.”
Dante didn't wait for them to clear the doorway.
He stepped out from the alcove with terrifying, fluid speed.
The heavy Beretta in his right hand barked three times in rhythmic succession.
The muzzle flashes illuminated the hallway in sharp, blinding strobes of white and orange.
The lead mercenary dropped before his boots could hit the runner, his rifle clattering uselessly against the baseboard. The second man took two rounds to the center chest and folded backward into the grand piano, sending a discordant shriek of severed brass strings through the vaulted ceiling.
The third shooter whipped his carbine around, opening fire blindly into the gallery.
Plaster exploded around us. Shards of 18th-century oil paintings rained down like autumn leaves.
Dante didn't flinch. He adjusted his stance by two inches, stepped directly into the path of the incoming fire, and squeezed the trigger twice more.
The third man hit the floor with a heavy, wet thud.
Silence rushed back into the gallery, broken only by the smell of ozone, cordite, and copper.
Dante lowered his weapon, his breathing utterly calm.
He reached back, caught my right hand again, and pulled me out from the alcove.
“Step over the threshold. Don't look at the floor.”
I kept my eyes pinned to his back, but the copper tang in the air made my stomach heave. My sneakers brushed against something soft and heavy on the runner, but I forced my legs to keep moving, my heart hammering against my ribs until I thought my chest would split.
We reached the private elevator alcove at the end of the east wing.
Dante pressed a hidden release catch behind a bronze wall sconce.
A heavy oak bookcase swung outward, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that descended straight into the bedrock beneath the foundation.
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“Where are we going?” I whispered.
“The subterranean boat slip,” Dante answered, guiding me down the spiral steps. “My brother didn't die in an accident, Maya. And the men who killed him didn't come by road.”
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