184 When Manhattan’s Most Feared Crime Boss Found His Traumatized Daughter Asleep in My Waitress Apron, He Thought I Was a Stranger—Until He Discovered My Secret Past Was the Only Key to Saving His Missing Wife / Chapter 157 / 190

Chapter 157 - The Fire on Sutton Place

The blast of a 12-gauge shotgun shattered the mahogany doorframe six inches above my head, spraying wood splinters into my hair. Marcus grabbed my collar and hauled me behind an ornamental marble column as a second blast ripped through the plaster wall.

"Down!" Marcus yelled.

I dropped to one knee, leaned around the base of the pillar, and squeezed the trigger of my pistol three times. The shooter on the second-floor mezzanine—a burly man in an oilskin jacket—gasped, dropped his weapon, and tumbled over the wrought-iron banister, crashing onto the glass coffee table in the center of the parlor.

"Elena, stairs! Go!" Marcus shouted, laying down a barrage of covering fire toward the rear corridor where two more men were advancing.

I scrambled up the curved staircase, my sneakers slipping on the blood-slicked marble. The wailing alarm was deafening, flashing red emergency beacons illuminating portraits of Mercer ancestors hanging along the wall—men and women who had owned this city for generations, now watching their legacy bleed out on imported rugs.

On the third-floor landing, the master bedroom door was barricaded from the inside.

"Chloe!" I screamed, slamming my shoulder against the heavy oak paneling. "Chloe, can you hear me?"

A muffled sob answered from the other side, followed by a harsh, grating voice: "Take one more step and I drop her off the balcony into the river!"

Liam O’Hara.

I backed up two steps, leveled my weapon at the brass lock, and fired four consecutive rounds into the cylinder. The wood splintered violently. I slammed my boot against the door handle, and the heavy barrier swung inward with a crash.

The bedroom was dark, save for the rain lashing against the open French doors that led out onto the stone terrace overlooking the black churn of the East River.

Standing on the edge of the stone balustrade, holding eight-year-old Chloe by the collar of her yellow raincoat, was a tall, lean man with a scar running from his ear to his collarbone.

Chloe was crying hysterically, her small hands clutching at the man’s iron grip, her bare feet dangling over the four-story drop into the freezing water below.

"Back off, Mercer," O’Hara snarled, pulling a short-barreled revolver from his coat and pressing it against Chloe's temple. "Drop the gun, or the girl feeds the striped bass."

"Let her go, Liam," I said, keeping my weapon steady, pointing directly between his eyes. "You're cut off. The docks are sealed. Cole Vance is dead, and Eleanor Mercer is sitting at the Carlyle with the FBI on speed dial."

O’Hara laughed, a wet, rattling wheeze. "Eleanor Mercer doesn't care about this kid! She bought this kid like a piece of freight! But to Boston... to the O’Haras... this kid is worth fifty million dollars in port concessions."

"She’s not a concession," a low, monstrous voice growled from the doorway behind me.

O’Hara’s eyes widened in sheer terror as Marcus Vance stepped into the room. Marcus was bleeding from a graze on his cheek, his trench coat torn, his eyes completely hollowed out by pure, murderous intent.

"Marcus..." O’Hara stammered, his hand shaking against Chloe’s head. "Stay back! I swear to God I'll drop her!"

"You won't," Marcus said, taking a slow, steady step forward, ignoring the revolver pointed at the child. "Because you know what I will do to your brothers in South Boston if one drop of her blood hits this floor."

In that split second of hesitation, Chloe looked up. Her tear-streaked eyes caught mine.

"Aunt Elena!" she cried.