Chapter 6 - The Siege at Brookline
Word count: ~1,500 words
The doors to the dining parlor flew open with a crash.
Three men in tactical black vests and heavy winter coats poured into the room. At the front stood Victor Moretti—Dominic’s estranged uncle and the ruthless architect of the syndicate’s dark past. A cold, sadistic grin stretched across Victor’s scarred face as he leveled a silenced pistol directly at Dominic’s chest.
“Well, well, well,” Victor sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Playing house with the maid, Dominic? I told you years ago, sentimentality is a fatal disease in this family.”
Dominic didn't flinch. He smoothly stepped sideways, placing his body directly between the armed men and Anna, who was shielding Leo behind her chair.
“Put the gun down, Uncle,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into a lethal, glacial calm that made the hairs on the back of Anna’s neck stand up. “This doesn't concern you.”
“Everything in Boston concerns me, nephew,” Victor laughed darkly, gesturing to his guards. “And especially the little stray cat you’ve invited into our home. Evelyn Harper’s brat, isn't it? Word travels fast when you start digging into old corporate files. We left your mother alive fifteen years ago out of pity, Dominic. It seems we made a mistake leaving her bloodline breathing.”
Anna’s blood ran cold. She looked down at six-year-old Leo, who was trembling in terror, clutching the hem of her apron.
“Get behind the service pillar, Leo,” Anna whispered fiercely, pushing the boy toward the heavy stone alcove near the kitchen pantry door.
Victor raised his pistol higher, aiming past Dominic’s shoulder straight at Anna.
“Let’s end this legacy once and for all,” Victor hissed, tightening his finger on the trigger.
In a fraction of a second, Dominic moved with terrifying, blinding speed.
Instead of reaching for his own hidden holster, Dominic lunged forward, slamming his fist directly into the wrist of Victor’s gun hand. The silenced pistol discharged, the bullet embedding harmlessly into the plaster ceiling with a loud crack.
The two armed guards lunged forward to tackle Dominic, but before they could reach him, the heavy side doors of the dining parlor burst open.
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Mrs. Gable—the head housekeeper—stepped out of the shadows. But she wasn't holding cleaning supplies. In her hands, she held a short-barreled shotgun, pointing it squarely at the chest of the lead intruder with an icy, military-grade precision that proved the estate staff were far more than they appeared.
“Drop your weapons,” Mrs. Gable barked, her voice echoing with absolute authority. “Nobody is shooting anyone in this house today.”
