Chapter 7 - Blood and Steel
Upstairs, the north gate gave way with a deafening screech of twisted iron.
Vincenzo Rossi stepped through the smoking rubble of the iron gates, a submachine gun cradled in his arms, his face twisted in a manic, vengeful grin. Behind him poured three dozen armed thugs, surging across the manicured lawns and shattering the French windows of the ground-floor drawing-room.
"Burn the house down!" Vincenzo roared, waving his gun toward the mansion. "Show Kanti what happens when he puts a maid ahead of family business!"
Before the first Molotov cocktail could be thrown, the front double doors of the mansion swung wide open.
Daario Kanti stood framed in the doorway alone.
He held a pistol in each hand, his stance wide and balanced, his face completely devoid of fear.
"Looking for me, Vincenzo?" Daario’s voice carried clearly over the crackle of approaching flames.
Vincenzo raised his submachine gun, laughing hysterically. "You’re outgunned, Daario! You've gone soft in your old age! Fire!"
A hail of lead tore through the doorway, but Daario moved with terrifying, preternatural speed. He dove to the side, rolling behind a marble pillar as bullets shattered the crystal chandelier above.
Returning fire with cold, mechanical precision, Daario’s pistols cracked twice.
Bang. Bang.
Two of Vincenzo’s frontline enforcers dropped instantly, shot clean through the chest.
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What followed was a brutal, asymmetric firefight in the grand halls of the Kanti mansion. Daario used every corner, every shadow, every architectural advantage of the home he had built to survive. For twenty minutes, the sound of gunfire shook the neighborhood, shattering centuries-old antiques and turning pristine white marble floors red.
Upstairs in the panic room, Elena sat rocking a crying Matteo, listening to the muffled thunder of war echoing through the foundations of the house. Every explosion felt like a physical blow. She realized with a sudden, crushing realization that Daario Kanti was bleeding out there to protect them—a woman he had met twenty-four hours ago and a baby who had grabbed his suit lapel.
