Chapter 4 - The Return to the Manor and the Gathering Storm
The side door of the utility van slid open with a sharp rattle as Nora ran up, breathless, wet, and clutching the iron pruning shears like a dagger.
When she saw Maisie safe in Roman’s arms, her knees buckled.
She caught herself against the side of the van, sliding down until she was sitting on the wet gravel, sobbing uncontrollably as the sheer terror of the last fifteen minutes finally caught up with her.
Roman stepped out of the van, carrying Maisie securely against his shoulder, and knelt beside Nora in the mud.
With his free arm, he reached out and pulled the exhausted, trembling mother into his side, holding both of them in a protective, unbroken circle against the cold rain.
“I told you she was safe,” Roman said softly, his voice vibrating against Nora’s damp shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Nora wept, burying her face in the sleeve of his ruined, soot-blackened shirt.
“I tried... I tried to keep her away. She’s too stubborn for her own good.”
“She takes after her mother,” Roman replied, a faint, grim smile touching his lips.
“Or perhaps she takes after the man she just saved.”
Ten minutes later, a convoy of three black armored SUVs came screaming up the estate’s main drive, tires throwing up rooster tails of gravel and mud as they slammed to a halt in front of the grand stone manor.
Arthur Vance, Roman’s chief of security, leaped out of the lead vehicle alongside six heavily armed tactical guards, their faces pale with shock as they saw their boss—bleeding, burned, and wearing a half-burned shirt—carrying a three-year-old child out of a utility van while a soot-covered maid walked beside him.
“Boss!” Arthur shouted, sprinting across the gravel.
“Jesus Christ, what happened? The rear perimeter cameras went offline twenty minutes ago, but we thought—!”
“You thought wrong, Arthur,” Roman interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal register that made the chief of security stop dead in his tracks.
“The entire rear security grid was manually bypassed from the basement terminal. Someone inside this house let an assassin onto the grounds, locked me in a burning shed, and tried to murder a three-year-old child.”
Arthur’s face drained of color.
“Who?” he demanded, his hand dropping automatically to the grip of his sidearm.
“Find out which of our administrative staff or security contractors had access to the master terminal codes between midnight and six a.m.,” Roman ordered, handing a crying Maisie gently over to Nora.
“And round up every single head of department in the main drawing room within ten minutes. If anyone tries to leave the property, shoot them in the legs.”
“Consider it done, boss,” Arthur said, turning away with murder in his eyes.
Roman stood tall in the pouring rain, his blistered hands clenching into tight fists as he watched the smoking skeleton of the garden shed in the distance.
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The war for the DeLuca syndicate had officially begun.
And this time, it was personal.
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