Chapter 8 - Siege at the Estate
*Bang! Bang-bang!*
Instantly, the high-security alarm system of the Hale estate began to wail, flashing brilliant red emergency lights across the dark bedroom windows.
"Stay here," Vincent ordered instantly, his mafia-boss instincts taking over with terrifying efficiency. In a fraction of a second, the vulnerable man struggling with a medical miracle vanished, replaced by the ruthless syndicate leader who ruled the eastern seaboard with an iron fist.
He unclipped a heavy Glock from his shoulder holster, chambered a round with a sharp, metallic click, and spun toward the door.
"Vincent, wait!" Claire grabbed his arm. "They're here for me, aren't they? The Morettis—they know I'm pregnant!"
"They're not touching you," Vincent snarled, his eyes flashing with lethal intent. "Dante! Secure the perimeter!" he shouted into his lapel radio as he bolted out into the hallway.
Claire didn't stay behind. Ignoring his command, she grabbed a heavy brass lamp from the bedside table as a makeshift weapon and followed him out into the dimly lit corridor.
Downstairs, the heavy oak front doors exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and flying glass.
Armed men in tactical gear swarmed the grand foyer, led by Marcus Vance himself, who wielded an assault rifle with a manic grin plastered across his face.
"Hale!" Vance shouted over the blaring alarms. "Game over! Hand over the girl and the house, and maybe we'll let you crawl out of here alive!"
From the top of the grand staircase, Vincent stepped into the open, completely exposed, raising his firearm with cold, dead-eyed precision.
"Marcus," Vincent called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos of the alarms. "You really should have stayed in Philadelphia."
Before Vance could raise his weapon, three of Vincent’s elite snipers dropped silently from the vaulted ceiling rafters, their laser sights painting red dots directly across Vance’s chest and the foreheads of his men.
Simultaneously, sirens began wailing outside—real police sirens, echoing through the estate gates. But they weren't ordinary local cops; they were federal agents on Vincent's payroll, moving in to crush the Moretti syndicate once and for all.
Vance’s face drained of color as he realized he had walked straight into a meticulously planned trap.
"You... you set me up," Vance stammered, dropping his rifle to the marble floor.
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"You thought my empire was built on glass," Vincent said, stepping down the stairs one by one. "You thought my lack of an heir made me weak. You were wrong about everything."
***
