Chapter 10 - Blood on the Marble
The kitchen service corridor was dead silent except for the rhythmic drip of a leaky faucet near the industrial sinks. The air smelled of cold stainless steel, old grease, and the faint, lingering scent of rain.
Four men in heavy tactical gear, wearing black balaclavas and carrying suppressed submachine guns, moved in a tight, professional formation down the hall. Their boots clicked softly against the stone floor as they approached the arched doorway leading toward the east wing vault.
Leading the team was a scarred mercenary named Viktor, a veteran of Eastern European black ops who had been promised a fortune by Valentina’s loyalists if he could extract her from the estate before dawn.
"Clear," Viktor muttered into his comm-mic, signaling the man behind him as they rounded the corner into the grand dining room—the exact spot where, just nights before, Sophia had stood holding a newborn wrapped in a cream-colored blanket.
The massive room was bathed in pitch darkness, the heavy drapes drawn tight against the grey morning light. Only the faint amber glow of the crystal chandelier flickered on low emergency power.
Viktor raised his weapon, sweeping the long mahogany dining table. "Move fast. Grab the target from the vault and—"
Clack.
The sharp, echoing sound of a single Zippo lighter snapping open cut through the darkness near the head of the table.
Viktor spun around, his weapon leveling toward the sound.
Sitting in the high-backed leather chair at the head of the table, illuminated by the small, steady flame of a lighter held in his hand, was Rocco Moretti. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms and the heavy gold watch glinting against his skin. In his right hand, resting casually on the polished mahogany wood, was a shotgun with a shortened barrel.
"You took the wrong route, gentlemen," Rocco’s voice echoed smooth and lethal across the empty room.
Before Viktor could pull the trigger, the shadows along the perimeter of the dining room erupted. Marcus and three elite security operatives stepped out from behind the velvet drapes, their weapons locked dead center on the intruders.
"Drop your weapons," Marcus commanded, his voice cold as ice. "Or you won't make it out of the kitchen."
Viktor’s eyes widened behind his balaclava. He realized in a fraction of a second that they hadn't breached the estate—they had walked directly into an execution chamber prepared specifically for them.
Instead of lowering their weapons, Viktor snarled and whipped his submachine gun upward—
The thunderous roar of Rocco’s shotgun shattered the silence of the mansion, sending a flash of fire across the polished marble floor.
Within three seconds, the confrontation was over. The mercenaries lay disarmed and subdued on the floor, their weapons kicked away into the shadows. Viktor groaned, clutching a shattered shoulder against the mahogany base of the table as Marcus pinned him down with a heavy boot.
Rocco slowly stood up from the head of the table. He clicked the lighter shut, plunging the room back into semi-darkness, save for the pale morning light breaking through the service windows.
May you like
He looked down at the bruised and bleeding men who had dared to bring violence into his home, his face as cold and unreadable as stone.
"Clean this up," Rocco ordered quietly, walking past the fallen mercenaries without a second glance. "And tell my wife her visitors have arrived... but they won't be checking out."
