Chapter 5 - The Siege of the Zodiac RoomThe heavy walnut doors didn't just open; they exploded inward in a chaotic shower of splintered wood, brass hinges, and white plaster dust.
Before the smoke could even clear, Salvatore moved with the terrifying speed of a striking cobra. He shoved me hard behind the heavy mahogany sideboard, using his own broad frame as a human shield, and raised his pistol with both hands.
Bang! Bang!
Two deafening gunshots echoed inside the enclosed room, the sound so violent it made my teeth rattle. Through the settling dust, I saw the bearded intruder stumble backward, dropping his submachine gun as he caught a round in the shoulder, collapsing hard against the floral wallpaper.
The remaining three gunmen opened fire blindly, riddling the mahogany table and the crystal chandelier with a hailstorm of lead. Glass rained down like diamond dust, tinkling against the carpet.
Salvatore returned fire with cold, clinical precision—three shots, three distinct flashes of muzzle fire, and two more attackers hit the floor, writhing in pain.
The fourth gunman, realizing he was outmatched, lunged forward with a tactical knife, aiming directly for Salvatore’s blind side while the boss was clearing his pistol’s chamber.
My heart leapt into my throat. Without thinking, without calculating the risk, I grabbed the heavy silver ice bucket off the sideboard and hurled it with every ounce of strength I possessed.
Clang!
The heavy silver bucket caught the attacker squarely in the side of his helmeted head, sending him staggering off balance just enough to ruin his momentum.
That microsecond of hesitation was all Salvatore needed. He whipped around, gripped the attacker’s wrist with bone-crushing force, and slammed the man’s head against the edge of the stone fireplace with a sickening thud.
The man slumped unconscious to the floor.
Silence descended on the Zodiac Room, broken only by the hiss of a broken steam pipe behind the wall and the ragged breathing of the wounded men groaning on the carpet.
Salvatore stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving, his suit jacket torn at the shoulder. He dropped his empty magazine onto the floor, snapped a fresh one into place with a sharp, metallic click, and slowly turned around to look at me.
His dark eyes were wide, filled with an intense, burning emotion that transcended words. He dropped to his knees in front of the sideboard where I was cowering, his calloused hands reaching out to grab my shoulders, gently shaking me to verify I was real and intact.
Are you hit? his hands moved frantically, his fingers trembling. Tell me you aren't hit.
I’m fine! I signed back, tears of adrenaline finally spilling over my eyelashes. I’m completely fine! But you—your shoulder—
A dark crimson stain was slowly spreading across the white fabric of his shirt where a grazing round had clipped him during the crossfire.
Before Salvatore could sign a reply, the heavy exterior service door burst open, and Marcus—along with six armed syndicate enforcers—flooded into the room, their weapons drawn, ready to defend their boss to the death.
Marcus took one look at the carnage, the unconscious gunmen, and his bleeding boss, and his face turned to stone.
“Boss!” Marcus shouted, rushing forward. “Are you alright? We were delayed by a coordinated street blockade on Ohio Street—”
“Call Dr. Vance,” Salvatore interrupted, his voice dropping into a harsh, gravelly roar that made the enforcers snap to attention. He didn't look at Marcus; his gaze remained fixed entirely on me, his thumb gently wiping a speck of dust from my cheek. “And throw these trash bags out of my sight. Anyone who helped coordinate this hit on my territory... I want their operations dismantled by sunrise.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marcus said firmly. Then, his eyes flicked toward me, a profound, undeniable respect settling into his hardened features. “And Miss Tessa... thank you for keeping him in one piece.”
I let out a shaky, disbelieving breath, looking around the demolished Zodiac Room. The high-end restaurant was in ruins, my apron was stained with plaster dust and gunpowder, and the man sitting in front of me was a notorious crime lord who had just risked his life to ensure I wasn't scratched.
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My quiet, predictable life as a Gold Coast waitress was officially dead and buried.
And as Salvatore gently pulled me into his arms, holding me against his chest with a desperate, protective strength, I knew I was standing right where I belonged.
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