Chapter 5 - The Siege of Pike’s Bakery
"Get down!" Marco roared, lunging forward and sweeping Mila and Leo into his arms in a single, fluid motion.
He shoved them behind the heavy oak flour bins, shielding their bodies with his own massive frame. "Elena, stay low!"
Another explosion rocked the front of the bakery. The heavy plate-glass window shattered inward, raining sparkling shards across the linoleum floor. Smoke began to curl through the broken frame, smelling of cordite and high-grade military explosives.
"Marco!" I cried out, crawling behind the counter toward him. "How did they find us so fast?!"
"The tracker," Marco cursed, his jaw clenching. "When my car entered county lines, their satellite ping caught my transponder. I thought I disabled it, but they're using military-grade scanners."
He pulled a sleek, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from a concealed holster beneath his belt, checking the chamber with a crisp, mechanical click. He handed it to me. I stared at the weapon, my hands trembling. I hadn't held a gun since the night I fled Chicago.
"Can you shoot?" Marco asked, his amber eyes locked onto mine, completely devoid of panic.
"Yes," I said, remembering the target practice sessions Marco had forced me to take part in during our first year of marriage, "but I haven't practiced in three years."
"Just aim for the center mass. If anyone comes through that door who isn't wearing a Bellini pin, pull the trigger." Marco turned to Mila and Leo, whispering fiercely, "Stay right here with Mama. Do not make a sound. Look at me—look at my eyes. I will be right back."
"Daddy?" Mila whimpered, clutching his sleeve.
Marco pressed a fierce kiss to her forehead, then to Leo’s. "I love you both. Be brave."
He rose from behind the counter, keeping low as he moved toward the shattered front window.
Outside, the quiet Gray Hollow street had transformed into a war zone. Two black SUVs blocked the road, their doors thrown open as tactical-gear-clad operatives advanced toward the bakery, automatic rifles raised. Moretti men. They hadn't sent debt collectors; they had sent a hit squad.
Pop-pop-pop.
Gunfire chewed through the remaining wooden siding of the bakery, sending splinters raining down around Marco. He fired back with chilling precision, dropping the lead operative with a single shot to the chest before diving behind an iron pillar near the entrance.
"Marco!" I screamed over the deafening roar of gunfire, pulling Mila and Leo tighter against my chest, shielding their ears.
The front door was kicked off its hinges with a splintering crash. A massive man in body armor stepped through the smoke, his rifle sweeping the interior of the bakery, locking his sights directly on the flour bins where my children were hiding.
My blood ran cold.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl.
I remembered what Marco had taught me. Center mass. Breathe out. Pull the trigger.
I raised the Sig Sauer, resting my shaking hands on the edge of the counter. The operative spun around, spotting me, his rifle barrel pivoting toward my face.
I squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
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The recoil slammed into my shoulder with brutal force. The operative staggered backward, dropping his weapon, and collapsed onto the flour-dusted floor.
Silence descended on the bakery, broken only by the crackle of a small fire near the front window and the terrified crying of my children.
