Chapter 7 - Blood on the Marble
The ground-floor foyer of the Moretti mansion was a war zone.
Heavy crystal chandeliers hung shattered across the imported marble floor, sparkling amidst splinters of oak and smoldering drywall. Two of Ethan’s private security guards lay motionless near the grand staircase, while heavy gunfire echoed from the direction of the eastern wing.
Ethan moved through the shadows with the terrifying, practiced precision of a man who had trained for this war since childhood. His tactical rifle swept across the curved balcony, tracking movement below.
“Ethan!”
A voice cried out from the shadows near the library doors.
Ethan spun around, his rifle raised—and froze.
Standing near the smashed display cases was Marco Moretti, holding a heavily bleeding Grace by the arm, a 9mm pistol pressed firmly against her temple. Grace’s face was pale, her clothes dusted with plaster from the explosions, but her eyes were defiant as she stared across the room at Ethan.
“Drop the rifle, cousin!” Marco roared, his voice unhinged, spittle flying from his lips as blood dripped from a shrapnel wound on his forehead. “Drop it, or I scatter her brains across this expensive floor right now!”
Ethan’s hands shook—not with fear, but with a blinding, white-hot rage that threatened to consume his entire consciousness. He slowly lowered the rifle, letting it clatter against the marble steps.
“Let her go, Marco,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register. “This is between you and me. She has nothing to do with the syndicate.”
“She has everything to do with it!” Marco laughed hysterically, pressing the barrel harder against Grace’s temple, making her flinch. “She’s your weakness, Ethan! You let a maid break the most powerful family in Chicago because you couldn't control your own heart!”
From the shadows behind a broken marble pillar near the doorway, Salvatore Rossi crept forward, raising his own pistol to take a clean, unobstructed shot directly at Ethan’s chest.
Before Salvatore’s finger could squeeze the trigger, a sharp, deafening crack echoed from the upper landing.
Bang.
Salvatore’s eyes went wide. A clean, round hole appeared right between his eyes, and the aging capo crumpled backward onto the floor like a broken marionette.
Everyone froze.
Slowly, Ethan looked up toward the second-floor balcony.
Standing there in her emerald silk robe, holding a vintage Smith & Wesson revolver that belonged to her late husband, was Vivian Moretti. Her hands were steady, her silver hair catching the amber glow of a burning drapery nearby.
“Nobody,” Vivian said, her voice echoing with the cold, absolute authority of the matriarch who had built the empire, “threatens a Moretti heir under my roof.”
Distracted by the shot from above, Marco’s grip on Grace slipped by a fraction of an inch.
It was all the opening Ethan needed.
With the speed of a striking viper, Ethan drew his concealed SIG pistol from his shoulder holster and fired a single, perfect round.
The bullet struck Marco squarely in the right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking the weapon from his hand. Grace wrenched herself free from his grasp, stumbling backward just as Marco collapsed onto the shattered glass.
Ethan crossed the foyer in three massive strides, slamming his boot down onto Marco’s chest and pressing the barrel of his gun against his cousin's forehead.
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“You’re done, Marco,” Ethan whispered.
Within seconds, the remaining loyal security guards swarmed the foyer, securing the perimeter and zip-tying the surviving mercenaries who had breached the gates.
