Chapter 7 - THE FINAL STAND IN THE GRAND HALL
Smoke drifted down the arched hallways of the Rinaldi estate.
Serena pressed her back against the wall beside the pantry door, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Through the haze, heavy footsteps thudded across the marble floor. A man in a tactical vest stumbled around the corner, his rifle raised, scanning the corridor. It wasn't one of Victor’s regular guards; it was one of Mateo’s mercenaries, sent to finish a coup started in the shadows.
The mercenary spotted Serena standing near the dining quarters. A cruel smirk spread across his face. “Well, look what the storm blew in. Grab her—she’s leverage against the boss.”
The man lunged forward, reaching out a heavy hand to grab her arm.
Serena didn’t scream. She didn’t run. All the frustration, all the terror of the custody hearing, all the exhaustion of a mother fighting tooth and nail for her daughter coalesced into a single, white-hot surge of adrenaline.
As the man lunged, Serena grabbed the heavy brass umbrella stand beside the door and swung it with every ounce of strength in her body.
CRACK.
The heavy brass base caught the mercenary square in the chest, sending him crashing backward against the marble wall. His rifle clattered across the floor. Before he could recover, Serena lunged forward, kicking the weapon far out of his reach, pinning his shoulder down with her heel.
“Touch me again,” Serena panted, her voice trembling with fury, “and I’ll make sure you don’t walk out of this estate.”
The mercenary stared up at her in utter shock, too stunned by a woman in a cheap blazer taking him down to utter a single word.
“Impressive form,” a voice echoed from down the hall.
Serena spun around, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Victor walked out from the smoke near the grand staircase. His suit jacket was torn at the shoulder, a shallow graze bleeding down his left forearm, and his gun barrel was still smoking. Behind him, two of his loyal capos dragged a bound and furious Mateo Rinaldi toward the front doors.
Mateo was screaming obscenities, thrashing against his captors, his face twisted in absolute defeat. “You’re making a mistake, Victor! They’ll tear this family apart from the inside!”
Victor didn’t even look at his brother. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on Serena, standing victorious over the fallen mercenary, chest heaving, hair wild, holding a brass umbrella stand like a medieval broadsword.
Victor let out a low, breathy chuckle—a sound full of awe, disbelief, and profound, irreversible devotion.
“Clear the house,” Victor ordered his capos, never breaking eye contact with Serena. “And throw my brother into the eastern holding unit until I decide whether to exile him or feed him to the dogs.”
“Victor!” Mateo roared as he was dragged out into the rain.
The front doors slammed shut. Silence descended over the grand hall once again, broken only by the distant patter of the storm against the glass.
Victor walked slowly toward Serena, tossing his empty firearm onto a velvet armchair. He stopped a foot away, looking down at her with an expression no tabloid photographer had ever captured—vulnerable, humbled, and completely undone.
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“You have a very unorthodox way of handling HR issues, Miss Valente,” Victor said quietly.
Serena lowered the brass stand, letting out a long, shaky breath as the adrenaline finally began to drain from her veins. “Next time, I’m billing you hazard pay.”
