Chapter 7 - The Bloodline
“Gotta girl! I got the girl!” a voice shouted from behind her.
A heavy hand grabbed Clara by her collar, throwing her violently against the hardwood wall of the main drawing room. The breath exploded from her lungs as she fell to her knees.
Vincent Falcone stepped slowly into the room, his shining shoes stopping inches from her face. He reached down, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back so she was forced to look up at him.
“Well, well,” Falcone sneered, his foul breath hot on her skin. “Rico Moretti’s new little pet. The waitress from Il Stellino.”
Clara glared at him through the pain, her green eyes burning with pure, unadulterated venom. “Touch me again, and Rico will feed you to the crabs in the Narrows.”
Falcone laughed—a harsh, barking sound. “Rico isn't here, sweetheart. He’s stuck in a meeting in Midtown while my boys clean out his house. Where’s the kid?”
“I don't know where he is,” Clara spat, clenching her fists. “He’s gone.”
Falcone’s face darkened. He raised his hand to backhand her across the face—
BOOM!
The heavy mahogany double-doors of the mansion didn't just open—they blew completely off their hinges, flying across the foyer in a shower of splinters and torn brass!
A black SUV had rammed straight through the front entrance of the house!
Before the smoke could even clear, Rico Moretti stepped out of the driver’s side door.
He didn't have a jacket on. He was holding a heavy tactical shotgun in his hands, his face completely pale, his eyes consumed by a blind, apocalyptic rage that transcended human emotion. Behind him, fifteen heavily armed Moretti soldiers poured through the shattered entrance like a black tide!
“FALCONE!” Rico roared—a sound so loud, so terrifying, that it felt like the entire foundation of the stone mansion shook.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Rico fired three consecutive rounds from the shotgun, obliterating the two gunmen standing in the hallway before they could even lift their rifles!
Falcone paled in absolute terror. He grabbed Clara, pulling her up as a human shield, pressing a snub-nosed revolver against her temple. “STAY BACK, MORETTI! STAY BACK OR I BLOW HER BRAINS OUT!”
Rico stopped at the threshold of the drawing room.
The floor around him was covered in smoke, spent shells, and blood. He looked at Falcone, then at Clara. When his eyes met Clara’s—when he saw the red mark on her face where Falcone had grabbed her—the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Vincent,” Rico said. His voice wasn't loud now. It was dead, flat, terrifyingly quiet. “You made three mistakes today.”
Falcone’s hand was shaking violently against Clara’s head. “Shut up! Shut up or I kill her!”
“First,” Rico continued, stepping forward slowly, his heavy boots crunching on broken glass, “you came into my home.”
“STAY BACK!”
“Second,” Rico took another step, lowering the shotgun, pulling a small silver pistol from his belt with lightning speed, “you put your hands on the mother of my child.”
Falcone blinked. “What—?”
“And third,” Rico whispered, “you thought I would negotiate.”
BANG!
Rico fired a single, impossible shot.
The bullet passed half an inch from Clara’s ear, tearing straight through Falcone’s shoulder! Falcone screamed, dropping the revolver as he fell backward onto the Persian rug.
In a fraction of a second, Clara broke free, running straight into Rico’s arms.
Rico caught her, pulling her small body tightly against his chest, wrapping his broad arms around her as if trying to merge her into his very skin. He dropped the gun, his hands buried in her hair, his body trembling with raw, overwhelming relief.
“Clara... oh God, Clara...” Rico sobbed into her hair, pressing desperate kisses against her face, her neck, her hands. “Are you hurt? Tell me you’re okay, please, baby, tell me you’re okay...”
“I’m okay,” Clara sobbed, holding onto his shirt with all her strength. “I’m okay! Leo is safe! He’s in the panic room with Mrs. Gable!”
Rico let out a choked sound that was half-laugh, half-cry. He cupped her face in his hands, looking into her eyes with a love so intense, so absolute, that it brought tears to her own.
“You protected him,” Rico whispered, his voice cracking. “You saved my son.”
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“I saved our son,” Clara corrected softly.
Rico stared at her, his dark eyes brimming with tears, before slamming his lips onto hers in a fierce, life-affirming kiss while his men dragged the wailing Falcone out into the dark, rainy night.
