Chapter 4 - Blood and MoonlightThe smoke in the grand hallway was thick enough to sting our eyes, blurring the crimson emergency lights into long, bleeding streaks.
Daniel and I crouched behind a massive marble pillar near the base of the grand staircase. Below us, in the foyer where two hours ago high-society guests had sipped champagne, three of Arthur Porter’s mercenaries were systematically clearing the area, kicking open doors and checking bodies.
"On my count," Daniel whispered against my ear, his breath warm against my skin despite the chaos around us. "Three. Two. One. Move."
We broke cover in a synchronized blur.
I fired twice, catching the first mercenary in the shoulder and spinning him around before he could raise his assault rifle. Daniel didn't even need his gun for the second; he vaulted over the banoleum railing, dropping onto the second mercenary with bone-crunching force, driving his combat knife deep into the man's chest before he hit the marble floor.
The third mercenary panicked, spinning toward me with his weapon raised.
Before I could pull my trigger, Daniel’s arm lashed out like a whip, hurling his empty pistol like a steel projectile that smashed directly into the man’s temple, knocking him out cold.
Within seconds, the foyer was silent once more, save for the crackle of distant flames and the heavy sound of our breathing.
Daniel stood up, wiping a streak of soot and sweat from his forehead. He looked down at me, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that had nothing to do with the battle.
"You fight like a demon, Emily Marchetti," he murmured, stepping closer.
"You fight like a reckless idiot," I retorted, though my heart was pounding from the adrenaline and the terrifying proximity of his body. "If you had missed that throw—"
"I don't miss," he interrupted softly. He reached out, his hand gently catching a strand of auburn hair that had escaped my bun and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek, warm and calloused. "Not when something worth protecting is standing right behind me."
Before I could process the words, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the balcony above us.
"Drop your weapons, Ashford!"
We both looked up. Standing on the second-floor landing was Arthur Porter himself. The aging syndicate boss looked disheveled, his expensive tuxedo jacket torn, holding a heavy golden revolver aimed directly down at Daniel's chest. Beside him stood two armed guards, their rifles tracking our movements.
"End of the line, Daniel," Arthur sneered, his voice echoing cruelly through the burnt-out hall. "You thought you could build an empire on my doorstep and walk away? I poisoned your champagne tonight because you were getting too big for your blood. And now, I get to watch you die in the ashes of your own kingdom."
Daniel didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his hands. He just stood there, tall and unflinching, shielding me with his own body.
"Arthur," Daniel said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "You always were a short-sighted fool. You thought I didn't know you were skimming from the docks? You thought I didn't see you plotting with the federal prosecutors last month?"
Arthur’s face paled. "You're bluffing—"
"I don't bluff," Daniel whispered.
With a blinding, unnatural speed, Daniel didn't reach for his gun. Instead, his hand whipped into his holster and threw a hidden throwing knife—one I hadn't even known he carried.
The blade flashed silver in the red emergency light.
Thwack.
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The knife buried itself hilt-deep into Arthur Porter’s right hand, forcing him to scream out in agony and drop the golden revolver, which clattered down the marble stairs to our feet.
Before Arthur’s guards could react, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion were blown completely off their hinges in a massive explosion of splintered wood and flying iron.
