Chapter 8 - The Crimson Storm
The next Thursday, Clara’s late-stage ultrasound was scheduled at a private maternity clinic in Winnetka. Dr. Alcott’s equipment was excellent, but the scan required specialized imaging he did not have.
Gabriel hated the trip.
“I should be with you,” he said that morning.
“You have a dock crisis.”
“I have men for dock crises.”
“You have me for thirty minutes at a clinic surrounded by guards,” Clara said, adjusting his collar. “Go. Then come back and hover dramatically.”
He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“Matteo has orders to be unbearable.”
“He already is.”
The clinic was discreet, brick, and tucked behind pines. The Falco team had cleared the morning schedule. No other patients. No visitors. Two vehicles in front, one in back, Matteo in the hallway, Vincent at the rear exit.
Clara lay back as the technician moved the wand across her belly.
The baby’s heartbeat filled the room.
Strong.
Fast.
Alive.
Clara smiled.
Then the lights went out.
Emergency lamps washed the room red.
Matteo burst in. “Mrs. Falco, up. Now.”
The front windows exploded.
Gunfire tore through reception.
The technician screamed. Matteo threw a protective vest around Clara’s shoulders and shoved her behind a steel cabinet as bullets punched through drywall.
Clara covered her belly, heart hammering.
Smoke rolled under the door.
A blast of pain ripped through her lower back.
She froze.
Another came, stronger.
Then warmth soaked the hospital gown beneath her.
“No,” she whispered.
Matteo fired down the hall. “Stay down!”
“The baby,” Clara gasped. “Matteo, the baby is coming.”
His face changed for one split second.
Then he put himself between her and the door.
“We hold until Gabriel gets here.”
A smoke canister bounced into the room.
White fog swallowed everything.
A man appeared through it, coughing, wild-eyed, holding a revolver.
Gregory Pierce.
Clara’s blood turned to ice.
“Look at you,” he spat. “Living like a queen.”
“Gregory, don’t.”
“Get up.”
“I can’t.” A contraction seized her, tearing a cry from her throat. “The baby is coming.”
“I don’t care if you have it on the floor.”
He grabbed her arm.
The back of the clinic detonated.
The force shook the building. Smoke shifted. Men shouted.
Then Gabriel Falco walked through the wreckage.
His suit was torn. Dust streaked his face. Blood marked one sleeve, though Clara could not tell if it was his. Behind him came his men, fast and silent.
Gabriel’s eyes found Clara on the floor.
Then Gregory’s hand on her arm.
The room seemed to lose all warmth.
Gregory pressed the revolver to Clara’s head. “Drop it, Falco!”
Gabriel stopped.
“Give me back my company,” Gregory screamed. “My money. My life.”
Gabriel looked at him with terrifying calm.
“You had a life,” he said. “You spent it throwing away the only people who loved you.”
“I’ll shoot her.”
“No,” Gabriel said. “You’ll shake. You’ll cry. You’ll blame your mother. You’ll do anything except take responsibility.”
Gregory’s face crumpled with rage.
His gun hand wavered.
Only for a second.
Gabriel fired.
The bullet struck Gregory’s shoulder. The revolver dropped from his hand. He collapsed screaming.
Gabriel was on his knees beside Clara before the echo faded.
“I’m here,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I’m here.”
“It hurts,” she sobbed. “Gabriel, I’m scared.”
May you like
He pressed his cheek against her hair.
“I know. But you are not alone in the storm anymore.”
