Chapter 9 - The Heir of Chicago
I didn't think. Instinct took total control.
I charged forward like a wounded bull, my Kimber spitting fire. My first two rounds punched straight through the throat of the lead shield-bearer as his guard dropped. I grabbed his falling body, using his heavy armor as a human shield as the second mercenary opened fire!
Automatic rounds shredded the body in my hands, but I pushed forward, slamming the dead weight into the second shooter, driving him backward into the shattered glass of the front fountain. I pressed my Kimber under his chin and pulled the trigger—BANG!
Above us, Leo opened fire from the balcony, a rain of lead pinning Corvo's remaining men behind the ruined entrance pillars.
Corvo screamed in rage, dropping his gold cane, reaching into his trench coat for a compact submachine gun. He aimed straight at Grace, who was scrambling across the slick floor toward the cover of the grand piano.
"GRACE!" I roared, but I was thirty feet away, trapped behind a fallen pillar.
Corvo pulled the trigger—
CRACK!
A heavy wooden baton sliced through the smoke-filled air, spinning with terrifying speed, smashing directly into Corvo's wrist!
The submachine gun shattered out of his grip, flying across the marble floor.
Corvo shrieked in pain, grabbing his broken wrist, looking down in utter disbelief.
Grace stood fifteen feet away, her posture low, her chest heaving, her empty hands raised in a perfect, flawless combat guard. She had thrown the wooden baton—the same baton she had trained with in the wine cellar—guided entirely by the sound of Corvo's voice and the metallic click of his gun slide.
"Intention comes before sound," Grace whispered into the quiet hall, her voice firm, steady, and devoid of fear.
Corvo stumbled backward, his face pale with horror as he looked at the twelve-year-old blind girl who had just disarmed him.
Before he could take another breath, Valeria stepped out from the shadows behind him. She grabbed Corvo by his silver hair, pulling his head back, and drove a five-inch tactical blade straight through the side of his neck.
Corvo gasped, blood pouring over his expensive gray coat, before collapsing onto the marble floor, motionless.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The heavy rain outside continued to beat against the broken windows, washing away the smoke and gunpowder dust hanging in the air.
Valeria dropped her bloody knife onto the floor. She looked over at me, then down at Grace, wiping a streak of black soot from her cheek. "I told you, Matteo," she panted softly. "I didn't come here to kill you."
I dropped my empty Kimber, walking slowly across the ruined foyer. I fell to my knees in front of Grace, pulling her small, shaking body tightly against my chest.
Grace wrapped her arms around my neck, burying her face in my shoulder, sobbing softly as the adrenaline finally left her small frame. "Dad... I did it... I listened..."
"You did, sweetheart," I choked out, tears burning my eyes as I squeezed her as tight as I could. "You saved us all."
I looked up over Grace's shoulder at Valeria, who was standing quietly by the ruined doorway, watching us with a faint, sad smile.
"You lied to Corvo," I said quietly. "You used his own assault to draw him out into the open."
"He was hunting my family for twenty years, Matteo," Valeria said, pulling her gray sweater back over her bruised arms. "I needed a fortress to trap him in. And I needed a partner who knew how to finish a fight."
I stood up, holding Grace securely in my left arm, extending my right hand toward Valeria.
Valeria looked at my open palm, then stepped forward, gripping my hand with a firm, iron grip.
"You're not fired anymore," I said, a faint smile breaking through the grime on my face. "The East Wing needs a lot of repairs. And my daughter still has a lot to learn."
Grace looked up between the two of us, a soft, small laugh escaping her lips despite the carnage around us. "Can we train with real batons tomorrow, Dad?"
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I looked down at my daughter—the blind girl who had saved my life, the true heir to everything I had built—and for the first time in twelve years, I didn't feel fear.
"Tomorrow morning at six, Grace," I smiled, holding her tighter. "And this time, your dad is taking the first strike."
