Chapter 8 - The Breach
Before Dante could draw his weapon, Leo thumbed the remote.
A heavy, low-frequency electrical hum vibrated through the floorboards, instantly cutting out the house's internal lighting and plunging the study into the amber glow of the emergency backup generators. Simultaneously, the sharp, ear-splitting shriek of the security gate alarms echoed from the front perimeter.
"Down!" Dante roared, lunging across the room with terrifying speed.
He tackled Clara behind the heavy mahogany desk just as a volley of heavy-caliber rounds shattered the reinforced glass of the waterfront windows, sending a storm of jagged crystals raining across the room.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
Bullets chewed through the leather sofa where Clara had been sitting a second earlier, riddling the upholstery with smoking holes.
"Elena!" Dante yelled over the deafening roar of automatic gunfire, his eyes darting frantically toward the corner of the room.
The little girl was cowering beneath the plush armchair, her hands clamped tightly over her ears, her small body shaking violently as plaster dust rained down from the ceiling.
Marco Bellini didn't hesitate. Despite his broken arm, he dropped to one knee, drew his backup pistol with his left hand, and fired three rapid shots through the shattered window frame toward the garden terrace outside. A muffled shout and the sound of a body hitting stone echoed from the lawn.
"Boss! They're coming through the terrace doors!" Marco yelled, blood leaking through the bandages on his arm. "We're boxed in! The front gate is compromised!"
Dante pulled Clara behind the reinforced steel knee-well of the desk, his face carved from granite, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. He grabbed a secure satellite phone from the desk drawer and punched in a single emergency sequence with his thumb.
"Who are you calling?!" Clara screamed over the staccato rhythm of gunfire hitting the exterior stone walls.
"The only person in New York Julian's money hasn't touched," Dante barked, holding the phone to his ear. "Captain Vance... pick up, damn you..."
A sharp click answered on the other end.
"Vancini? Are you insane calling this line? My precinct is already getting calls about shots fired in Riverdale—"
"Listen to me, Arthur," Dante interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal, urgent command that brooked no argument. "Julian has gone rogue. He’s running a wet-work team at my safehouse right now. If you want your share of the family shipping routes intact, you bring every unbought tactical unit you have to the Riverdale estate in five minutes, or there won't be anything left of the Vancini name to salvage!"
A heavy pause hung over the line, punctuated by the sound of glass shattering closer to the study doors.
"Five minutes," a cold voice replied from the other end before the line went dead.
"Dante!" Marco shouted, firing another round through the shattered doorway as heavy combat boots thudded against the hardwood floor of the main hallway. "They're in the house! They're at the study door!"
Dante slammed the satellite phone into his pocket, drew his Sig Sauer, and shoved Clara behind the thickest part of the mahogany desk.
"Stay down," Dante ordered, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, burning intensity. "No matter what happens, do not move."
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Before Clara could protest, the heavy oak doors of the study splintered inward under the force of a breaching charge, blowing fragments of wood and iron across the room in a cloud of thick, choking gray smoke.
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