Chapter 12 - The Crimson Reticle
The red dot burned against my lace gown like a drop of fresh blood.
In that split second, time stretched into an unbearable ribbon of silence. I could hear the wet, dying wheeze of the assassin on the table; I could hear the wind howling through the punctured glass; I could hear the desperate, roaring beat of my own heart hammer against my ribs.
Then Dante moved.
He didn't yell. He didn't hesitate. With the raw, explosive violence of a predator unleashed, Dante vaulted over the mahogany table, sweeping his arm outward. His massive frame collided with mine with the force of an avalanche, wrapping around my body like a wall of living armor.
*CRACK.*
The deafening report of a heavy-caliber sniper rifle shattered the hall. A bullet tore through the air where my skull had been a fraction of a second prior, punching a fist-sized crater into the ancient oak wainscoting behind the dais. Wood splinters exploded like shrapnel.
Dante took the brunt of the landing as we hit the floor, twisting his hips to ensure I landed flush against his chest rather than the jagged shards of crystal and porcelain littering the Persian rug. The breath slammed out of my lungs, but his iron arms locked around my waist and the nape of my neck, shielding my head beneath his broad shoulder.
"Down! Everybody down!" Marco’s voice sliced through the darkness like a serrated blade.
Another shot blasted through the stained-glass window, shredding the image of Saint Michael into sparkling dust. The high-caliber round slammed into the floor just inches from Dante’s boots, throwing sparks into the gloom.
"Cora," Dante growled, his mouth right against my ear, hot and ragged. "Look at me. Did it touch you?"
I gasped, trembling uncontrollably, my hands clutching the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. The scent of gunpowder, aged bourbon, and his distinct cologne filled my senses. "N-no. Dante, your shoulder—"
"I don't give a damn about my shoulder," he snarled, though I could already feel the hot, sticky dampness soaking through his left sleeve where a stray shard of glass or shrapnel had sliced deep.
Above us, the assassin on the table tried to scramble backward toward the darkness, laughing like a madman. "She’s marked, Moretti! Every hound in the Northeast has her scent now! You can't hide a common maid from—"
Dante didn't even stand. Keeping his left arm welded securely around my waist, he drew his spare revolver from his ankle holster with fluid, lethal economy. He didn't look back; he leveled the barrel by instinct and pulled the trigger twice.
The double roar of the .44 Magnum blew out my hearing. The assassin’s laugh died mid-throat as his body slumped backward off the mahogany table and crashed into the shadows, lifeless.
"Marco!" Dante barked, rising into a low crouch while hauling me effortlessly against his chest, lifting my feet completely off the glass-strewn floor. "Secondary breach protocol. Seal the grand hall and drop the blast shutters over the terrace!"
"They’ve cut the main grid and the backup conduit at the substation, Boss!" Marco shouted through the ringing darkness. Gunfire erupted outside in the courtyard—automatic weapons chattering in staccato bursts, answered by the heavier thud of Moretti rifles. "They brought thermite to the outer gates! This isn't a hit squad; it's a full-scale assault!"
"Then we butcher them in the corridors," Dante said, his voice dropping into a chilling, calm register that terrified me more than the sniper outside.
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He looked down at me in the dim glow of the remaining candles. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath the skin, his dark eyes ablaze with a murderous, unyielding devotion.
"You stay glued to my ribs, Cora," he whispered, pressing a fierce kiss to my temple even as bullets chipped the stone archway above us. "Anyone who wants you will have to walk over my corpse first. And God help them, I don't die easily."
