Chapter 5 - The Siege of the Mansion“Marcus, get the mansion on comms. Now!” I yelled over the noise of the helicopter rotors, panic suddenly slicing through the euphoria of having Lily back.
Marcus tapped his earpiece frantically, his face pale in the dim red light of the cabin. “Boss... the comms are dead. The perimeter guards aren't responding. The mansion’s localized grid has been jammed.”
My blood ran cold.
Victor hadn't just set a trap in the mountains. He had coordinated a simultaneous strike on my home to eliminate the only witness who could tie him to the kidnapping—Grace.
“Pilot, max speed!” I roared, pulling Lily closer to my chest.
Back at the mansion, miles away, the nightmare was already unfolding.
(Later, Grace would tell me exactly what happened during those terrifying hours while I was in the air.)
Deep in the east wing vault, Grace had heard the faint, muffled sounds of gunfire echoing from the upper floors of the mansion. Victor’s loyalists—men embedded deeply within my own security force—had turned on the loyal guards the moment my helicopter had left the city.
Grace knew the reinforced steel door of the vault would hold against small arms fire, but it wouldn't hold against thermite or C4.
She looked down at Amara, who was hiding under the sofa, terrified by the loud noises. Grace wasn't a mafia soldier. She didn't know how to shoot a gun. But she was a mother, and she had spent two years running from these monsters. She refused to be a victim again.
Suddenly, the keypad on the outside of the vault beeped. Access Denied.
Someone was trying to override the lock.
Grace frantically searched the safe room. She found a heavy iron fire poker near the decorative hearth. It wasn't much, but it was a weapon. She stood behind the heavy steel door, her heart hammering against her ribs, holding the heavy iron rod like a baseball bat.
Clunk.
The electronic lock sparked and smoked. They had short-circuited the biometric scanner. The heavy door slowly creaked open.
A man in a black tactical suit stepped into the room, holding a suppressed submachine gun. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on Amara under the sofa. He smiled, raising his weapon.
Grace didn't scream. She didn't hesitate.
She swung the heavy iron fire poker with every ounce of strength in her body, fueled by pure maternal adrenaline. The iron rod struck the gunman squarely in the side of the head with a sickening crack. He dropped instantly, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Grace dropped the poker, picked up the heavy submachine gun, and grabbed Amara’s hand.
“Come on, baby. We have to run,” Grace whispered, dragging her daughter out of the vault and into the chaotic, smoke-filled corridors of the mansion.
For twenty minutes, Grace navigated the labyrinthine halls of the estate, dodging firefights between the loyalists and the traitors, hiding in closets and air vents. She was trying to reach the underground garage to steal a car and escape.
But as she reached the grand foyer, she froze.
Standing between her and the garage doors were three of Victor’s men. They saw her instantly.
“There she is!” one of them yelled, raising his rifle.
Grace pushed Amara behind a marble pillar, raising the unfamiliar submachine gun with trembling hands, preparing to die defending her child.
Suddenly, the massive stained-glass skylight above the foyer shattered inward in an explosion of glass and moonlight.
My tactical boots hit the marble floor with a bone-shattering thud. I had fast-roped directly from the helicopter hovering just above the roof.
Before Victor’s men could even process what had just dropped from the sky, I raised my weapon and fired three precise shots. The traitors dropped to the floor, instantly neutralized.
I stood in the center of the ruined foyer, breathing heavily, my armor covered in dust and blood.
Grace peeked out from behind the marble pillar, her eyes wide with shock. She was gripping the submachine gun so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Julian?” she breathed.
I turned toward her. And then, from behind me, a tiny voice echoed through the grand, shattered hall.
“Mommy?”
Grace gasped.
Lily stepped out from behind Marcus, who had just entered through the front doors. She was dirty, wearing oversized tactical gear to keep her warm, and clutching her teddy bear.
Grace dropped the gun. She fell to her knees on the glass-covered marble floor, weeping uncontrollably as the sheer, overwhelming relief washed over her.
“You found her,” Grace sobbed, covering her mouth. “Oh my god, you found her.”
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I walked over, extending my hand to Grace. She looked up at me, her tear-filled eyes meeting mine. I didn't just see a housekeeper. I saw a warrior. A woman who had risked everything, fought off an armed assassin, and protected her child with the ferocity of a lioness.
“I found her,” I said softly, pulling Grace to her feet. “And the war is over. You’re safe now.”
