Chapter 6 - The Charity Gala Trap
Splinters of oak flew through the air as three masked gunmen in black tactical gear burst into the bedroom.
Luca reacted with terrifying speed. Before the first gunman could raise his weapon, Luca fired three quick shots. The heavy rounds struck the attacker in the chest, dropping him instantly. The second gunman fired back, bullets tearing through the drywall above Clara’s head.
Clara dropped to her knees behind the heavy mahogany bed, covering her ears as the deafening roar of gunfire filled the enclosed room.
Luca moved like a phantom despite his abdominal wound. He stepped inside the second gunman’s reach, deflected the barrel of his rifle, and drove a vicious elbow into the man’s throat before firing a round upward through his chin.
The third attacker lunged at Luca from the side, tackling him to the floor. Luca groaned in agony as the impact reopened his surgical wound, his gun spinning across the hardwood floor toward Clara.
The attacker pinned Luca down, pulling a serrated combat knife from his tactical vest, raising it high above Luca’s chest.
"Luca!" Clara screamed.
Without thinking, driven purely by adrenaline, Clara grabbed the handgun Luca had given her. She raised it with both hands, aimed at the attacker’s exposed side, and pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The recoil slammed into her wrists, but the shot hit its mark, tearing through the gunman’s flank. He gasped, dropping the knife and rolling off Luca. Luca immediately seized the fallen blade and drove it into the soldier's neck, ending the struggle.
Silence descended on the room, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of Luca and Clara, and the distant sounds of lingering gunfire downstairs.
Luca lay on his back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, blood soaking through his silk shirt once again. He turned his head toward Clara, who was still holding the smoking pistol with trembling hands, tears of adrenaline streaming down her face.
"Nice shot, Doc," Luca rasped, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips.
Ten minutes later, the gunfire downstairs died away. Dante burst into the room, flanked by four heavily armed loyalists.
"The house is secure," Dante announced, breathing heavily. "Marcus tried to run during the chaos. Gabriel took his head off in the driveway. Vane’s assault team has been wiped out."
Luca slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position with Clara’s help. "Vane threw everything he had at this hit," Luca said, his voice cold as steel. "He thinks I'm desperate. He thinks I'm weak."
"What are your orders?" Dante asked.
Luca looked down at the blood on his hands, then up at Clara, who was currently pressing a towel firmly against his re-opened wound, her eyes burning with a strange mix of fear and ferocious determination.
"Victor Vane is hosting his annual winter charity fundraiser tomorrow night at the Metropolitan Hotel," Luca said, his tone dropping to a dangerous whisper. "He thinks he's going to celebrate my death in front of the city's elite. We're going to crash his party."
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Clara looked up, startled. "You're injured! You can barely stand!"
"I don't need to stand for long," Luca said, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "I just need to show the city who still owns it. And you, Clara... you're coming with me."
