Chapter 7 - The Breach
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The darkness was absolute, heavy and suffocating.
“Stay exactly behind me,” Christopher whispered, his grip on my hand like a vice. “Do not make a sound.”
We moved blindly through the study. Outside the thick oak doors, the silence of the compound was broken by the sharp, terrifying sound of suppressed gunfire. Thwip. Thwip. The guards were being neutralized.
“Silvio knew the patrol routes,” Christopher muttered, pure venom in his voice. “He sold us out.”
He led me to the far wall of the study, pressing his hand against the wood paneling. A hidden latch clicked, and a small, narrow doorway opened into a dark passageway.
“Get in,” he ordered, shoving me gently into the cold space.
“I’m not leaving you!” I hissed, grabbing his jacket.
“It’s a panic room, Emily. The walls are reinforced steel. You lock it from the inside and wait for my loyal men to arrive.”
“What about you?”
“I am going to kill the man who betrayed my mother,” Christopher said, the cold, ruthless mafia boss completely taking over.
Before I could argue, the study doors burst open. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, illuminating Christopher.
“There he is!” a voice yelled in Italian.
“Close the door!” Christopher roared, shoving me fully into the panic room and slamming the wooden panel shut just as the room erupted in gunfire.
I fell backward onto the hard concrete floor, screaming his name. I scrambled to the heavy steel deadbolt on the inside of the door and threw it into place, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
I was trapped in a tiny, pitch-black box.
Outside, the muffled sounds of a war raged. I could hear men shouting, furniture shattering, and the deafening roar of Christopher’s heavy pistol returning fire.
I clamped my hands over my ears, sliding down the cold steel door, sobbing uncontrollably. This was not my world. I was a singer. I translated letters. Now, the man who had looked at me with such tender vulnerability was fighting for his life on the other side of a wall.
The gunfire lasted for what felt like hours, though it was likely only minutes.
Then, agonizing silence.
Someone pounded heavily on the wooden panel outside my door.
“Emily.”
It was Christopher’s voice. Ragged, breathless, but alive.
I threw the deadbolt back and pushed the door open.
The emergency backup lights had finally kicked on, casting a dim, red glow over the ruined study. Three men in black tactical gear lay dead on the Persian rug.
May you like
Christopher stood in the center of the room. His white dress shirt was soaked in crimson blood, pooling around his left shoulder.
“We have to go,” he gasped, dropping his empty pistol. “Silvio got away. And they know you’re here.”
