Chapter 8 - Under Siege
The heavy brass nozzle struck Anthony squarely across the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch.
Anthony screamed in agony, his weapon discharging wildly into the glass ceiling as he stumbled backward, clutching his shattered, bleeding face.
The momentary distraction was all Dominic needed.
Ignoring the bullet wound in his shoulder, Dominic surged forward like a wounded lion, driving his full weight into Anthony. Both men slammed into the concrete floor. Dominic’s left fist drove into Anthony’s jaw once, twice, three times, each blow delivered with brutal, bone-crushing vengeance until Anthony went completely limp, his submachine gun sliding across the slick tiles.
The remaining two mercenaries moved to open fire on Dominic, but the heavy glass doors of the conservatory blew inward with a thunderous roar.
Marcus and a dozen heavily armed Caruso loyalists stormed the rotunda, executing the surviving mercenaries within seconds.
The glasshouse fell into sudden, ringing silence, broken only by the patter of rain pouring through the shattered dome and the ragged gasps of the wounded.
I scrambled out from the drainage archway, my knees scraping against the jagged glass, and sprinted straight to Dominic.
He was kneeling over his unconscious brother, his right arm soaked in crimson blood, his chest heaving. When he looked up and saw me, the murderous fury in his eyes instantly dissolved into raw relief.
“Claire…” he whispered.
“You idiot,” I cried, tears spilling over my eyelashes as I ripped off my scarf and pressed it firmly against his shoulder wound to stem the arterial spray. “You absolute idiot! You could have been killed!”
Dominic let out a low, breathy laugh, wincing as I applied pressure. He reached up with his uninjured left hand, cupping the side of my face, his thumb wiping away a tear mingled with rain.
“You threw a garden hose at a mafia underboss,” Dominic murmured, his voice rich with warmth. “I believe you are far more dangerous than I am, Miss Bennett.”
“Pressure on the wound, Dominic! Stop talking!” I snapped, my clinical voice returning to mask the overwhelming wave of emotion crashing through my heart.
Marcus jogged up, surveying the carnage with grim satisfaction. “Dominic, the Moretti hit squads downtown were ambushed by our secondary garrison. Vincent Moretti is dead. The family council is secure.”
Dominic looked down at his broken, bleeding brother lying unconscious in the puddle of rainwater.
“Cuff him,” Dominic ordered, his voice cold and definitive. “Strip him of every asset, every account, every title. We are taking him back to Villa dei Corvi.”
“Dominic, wait,” Vivian’s trembling voice broke through the mist. She stepped out of the shadows, her eyes wide as she looked at Dominic, then down at Anthony. “What are you going to do to him?”
Dominic stood up slowly, leaning slightly against me for support. He looked at Vivian—the living image of the woman he had mourned for four agonizing years.
“Four years ago, I swore bloody vengeance on whoever took Elena from me,” Dominic said solemnly. “I thought I would tear the city apart to find them. But Elena never wanted violence. She hated the blood on my hands.”
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He looked down at Anthony. “He will not get the mercy of a quick bullet. He will spend the rest of his miserable life locked inside a maximum-security federal penitentiary, listening to the echoes of his own greed.”
***
