Chapter 5 - Shadows at the North Gate
The soundproofing in the studio was remarkable, but it couldn't block out the heavy vibration of gunfire echoing through the structural beams of the mansion.
I stood in the center of the room, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. Every instinct told me to hide under the desk, but I couldn't just sit there while Dominic was out there fighting a war that had erupted on his doorstep.
I rushed over to the small monitoring console in the corner of the studio. I noticed a series of black screens built into the rack equipment—a secondary security override panel. My hands flew over the buttons, recalling the basic operational layouts I had seen Marcus check in the security hub.
Screen three flickered to life, displaying grainy, night-vision footage of the north estate gates.
Two heavy black pickup trucks had rammed through the wrought-iron gates, spinning out on the wet gravel. Men in dark raincoats were spilling out, firing semi-automatic rifles toward the mansion’s main portico. Marcus’s security guards were returning fire from behind the stone pillars, but they were hopelessly outnumbered.
On screen four, I saw Dominic.
He moved with terrifying, fluid lethargy. Armed with a hand-cannon pistol, he stepped out onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the courtyard. Rain soaked his hair and dark shirt, but his stance was unwavering. With mechanical precision, he fired down into the attackers, taking out two men in rapid succession.
Then I saw something on screen two that made my blood run cold.
A third vehicle—a low-profile sedan—had bypassed the north gate entirely and pulled up near the low wall of the west wing terrace. Three men slipped out of the sedan, carrying heavy breach equipment and suppressed weapons.
They weren't trying to storm the front doors; that was a distraction. They were breaching the west wing—right where the studio was located.
They were coming for Dominic’s flank.
I frantically searched the control board for an intercom toggle to alert Marcus, but the external line was dead— Moretti’s men had cut the main comm lines.
"Think, Rachel, think!" I whispered to myself.
I looked around the soundproof studio. The sound system was wired directly into the mansion’s central PA horn network—a system used for emergency announcements across the thirty-acre estate.
I grabbed the studio microphone, flipped the main amplifier switches to maximum output, and patched the studio audio feed into the external PA system.
Then, I grabbed my tiny Bluetooth speaker from my bag, paired it to the console, and queued up the loud, chaotic recording of heavy automatic gunfire and police sirens I had downloaded weeks ago for a harmless prank video.
I cranked the master volume slider to 100%.
I slammed down the broadcast button.
BOOM!
An deafening, earth-shattering wall of sound erupted from the massive exterior speakers mounted along the roofline of the west wing. The sound of high-caliber machine guns and roaring police sirens blasted across the grounds at 120 decibels, echoing off the surrounding hills like an entire SWAT team had descended upon the property.
Through the security monitor, I saw the three men breaching the west wing terrace freeze in complete panic. Believing they were ambushed by incoming federal law enforcement, two of them dropped their equipment and sprinted back toward the sedan.
The distraction gave Dominic the crucial second he needed.
On screen four, Dominic glanced up at the PA speakers, recognized the trick instantly, and vaulted over the balcony railing onto the lower roof. He dropped down behind the remaining attacker on the terrace, neutralizing him with two swift, decisive shots.
Within five minutes, the gunfire outside died down completely. The remaining Moretti mercenaries were fleeing down the driveway, leaving their disabled vehicles behind.
Silence returned to the estate.
Ten minutes later, the heavy lock on the studio door clicked. The door swung open.
Dominic stood in the doorway, drenched in rainwater, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his face smudged with soot and blood. In his hand, his weapon was held low at his side.
He looked around the studio, saw the PA console lit up like a Christmas tree, and then looked at me.
"Police sirens?" Dominic asked, his deep voice breathless, a tiny, rare smirk forming at the corner of his lips.
"It was the loudest thing on my phone," I said, my voice shaking as the adrenaline crash finally hit me.
Dominic tossed his weapon onto the plush sofa, walked across the room in three long strides, and pulled me violently into his arms.
He held me tight against his chest, his heart thumping loudly against my ear, the cold rainwater from his shirt soaking into my cardigan.
"You're insane, Rachel Bennett," he murmured into my hair, his arms locking around my waist like steel bands.
"I learned from the best, Boss," I whispered back, burying my face in his neck, breathing in his scent.
Marcus appeared in the doorway, clutching a bleeding shoulder, but grinning broadly. "Boss, the Moretti crew is on the run. Julian’s private security detail just abandoned his estate in Scarsdale. He’s completely exposed."
Dominic pulled back slowly, looking down at me with an intensity that burned through the lingering chill in the room.
"It's time to finish this," Dominic said quietly. "Marcus, prepare the cars. We're going to pay Julian a final visit."
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"We?" I asked, widening my eyes.
Dominic took my hand, lacing his long fingers through mine tightly. "You're my personal assistant now, Rachel. And we have a meeting to finish."
