Chapter 6 - The Gathering Storm
The storm that hit the coast three weeks later was the worst the region had seen in a decade.
Gale-force winds tore through the pine trees surrounding the Rossi estate, tearing off branches and driving heavy torrents of freezing sea spray against the stone facade of the manor.
Inside, the lights flickered twice before dying completely as a main power grid line three miles away was brought down by a fallen tree.
Instantly, the estate’s heavy industrial diesel generators hummed to life in the basement, restoring power to the security perimeter, the emergency lights, and the control room.
In his room, Matteo sat at his small wooden desk, a set of colored pencils scattered across the surface. Clara was sitting beside him, guiding his hand as he drew a picture of a large sailboat on a calm blue ocean.
“Keep the stroke steady,” Clara encouraged softly. “Don't rush it.”
Matteo concentrated, his tongue poking slightly out from the corner of his mouth. Over the past three weeks, his transformation had been nothing short of miraculous. He was speaking in short, clear sentences. He was eating full meals. He smiled when Clara made sarcastic jokes about the estate’s overly serious guards.
The door opened, and Vincent stepped inside, holding a battery-powered lantern.
“The main power line is down,” Vincent said, setting the lantern on the mantelpiece. “The generators are running, but I’ve ordered the house locked down as a precaution.”
Matteo looked up from his drawing. He didn't flinch this time. He looked at his father for two full seconds before speaking in a small, steady voice.
“Look, Dad.”
Matteo pointed his finger toward the drawing of the sailboat.
Vincent froze in his tracks. His eyes moved from the paper to his son’s face. It was the first time in fourteen months that Matteo had addressed him directly as Dad.
Vincent slowly walked over to the desk and knelt on the floor beside his son’s wheelchair, placing a hand gently on the back of the chair.
“It’s beautiful, Matteo,” Vincent said, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. “You drew the sails very well.”
“Clara showed me how to shade the water,” Matteo said proudly.
Vincent looked up at Clara. She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
Suddenly, a dull, heavy thump echoed from the floor below, followed by the muffled rattle of automatic gunfire.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
The glass windows in the room vibrated violently.
Clara instantly grabbed Matteo by the shoulders, pulling him down toward her chest, using her own body as a shield. Vincent jumped to his feet, pulling his silver Kimber .45 from his holster in a single fluid motion.
The red emergency lights in the hallway began to flash.
The intercom on the wall crackled to life, static screaming through the speaker before Dominic’s frantic voice broke through:
“Vincent! It’s Lorenzo! He breached the south gate with Moretti’s men! They cut the main communications line! They’re inside the west wing!”
A heavy explosion rocked the foundation of the house, shaking plaster dust down from the high ceilings.
“Dominic!” Vincent shouted into the wall unit. “Get the men to the main foyer! Hold the stairwell!”
“We’re pushed back, Boss! There are at least fifteen of them—AHHH!”
The intercom line went dead with the sharp sound of a gunshot.
Vincent turned back to Clara. His face was deathly pale, his eyes burning with a terrifying, primal fury.
“Listen to me,” Vincent commanded, grabbing Clara by the arm and pulling her toward the heavy walk-in closet at the back of the room. “This room is reinforced with quarter-inch ballistic steel plates inside the walls. The closet door has a mechanical deadbolt.”
He pushed her and Matteo inside the dark closet, surrounding them with rows of suits and winter coats.
“Lock this door from the inside,” Vincent ordered, staring directly into Clara’s eyes. “Do not open it for anyone. Not even for me, unless you hear my voice give you the code word 'Lullaby'. Do you understand?”
Clara grabbed Vincent’s wrist, her fingers digging deep into his coat sleeve. She didn't look terrified. She looked like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield.
“Bring them down, Vincent,” she whispered fiercely. “Protect our boy.”
Vincent looked at her for one brief, intense second—a look that communicated everything that had remained unsaid between them for weeks—then slammed the heavy reinforced closet door shut.
May you like
From inside, Clara threw the heavy iron deadbolt into place.
Outside in the bedroom, Vincent racked the slide of his pistol, turning toward the bedroom door as the sound of footsteps and shouting began to echo down the long marble corridor.
