Chapter 7 - The Retaliation
For a week, the city was a warzone in the shadows.
News reports mentioned gas leaks and warehouse fires, but Elena knew the truth. Garrett was dismantling the Cole family’s infrastructure piece by piece.
Margaret remained calm, knitting in the sunroom as if a mafia war wasn't raging outside the gates. “He is a surgeon, my son,” she told Elena one afternoon. “He cuts out the rot. It is ugly, but it heals the body.”
On the eighth day, the retaliation hit closer to home.
Elena and Margaret were taking a rare trip to Margaret’s favorite private tailor downtown. The perimeter was secured by four of Garrett’s best men. They were in the VIP fitting room, a windowless suite in the back of the boutique.
Elena was holding up fabric swatches when she heard a muffled thump from the front of the store, followed by the sound of shattered glass.
Her instincts, honed by years of watching rooms, screamed at her.
“Margaret, get down,” Elena whispered urgently, dropping the fabrics.
She shoved Margaret behind a heavy mahogany wardrobe just as the door to the VIP room was kicked open.
Two men in ski masks holding suppressed automatic weapons stepped in. They weren't there for a conversation. They were a hit squad sent by Madison’s family to strike Garrett where it hurt the most.
One of the men spotted the edge of Margaret’s dress behind the wardrobe. He raised his weapon.
Elena didn't have a gun. She had a pair of heavy, solid steel fabric shears she had instinctively grabbed from the tailor's table.
As the gunman stepped forward, Elena lunged from the shadows. She drove the shears with all her strength into the side of the gunman’s neck, right below the jawline.
Blood sprayed instantly. The man choked, dropping his weapon as he grabbed his throat, collapsing to his knees.
The second gunman spun toward her in shock, raising his rifle. Elena, moving on pure adrenaline, grabbed the fallen man’s body and threw herself backward, using him as a temporary shield.
Two suppressed shots hit the dead man’s vest.
Before the second gunman could adjust his aim, the wall behind him exploded.
A barrage of heavy gunfire tore through the drywall from the hallway. The second gunman dropped, riddled with bullets.
Through the dust and smoke, Garrett Weston stepped into the room. He held a customized assault rifle, his face smeared with drywall dust, his suit ruined. His eyes were wide, scanning frantically until they landed on Elena, who was on the floor, covered in blood that wasn't hers, shielding his mother.
Garrett dropped the rifle. He crossed the room in two strides, falling to his knees beside Elena. He grabbed her shoulders, his hands shaking for the first time since she had known him.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Elena, look at me. Are you hit?”
“I’m okay,” she gasped, her hands shaking violently now that the adrenaline was fading. “Margaret is safe.”
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Garrett looked at his mother, who nodded grimly from behind the wardrobe. Then he pulled Elena into his chest, burying his face in her hair. He held her so tight she could barely breathe, but she didn't want him to let go.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against her ear. “I’ve got you. It’s over.”
