Chapter 11 - The Siege of Cape Blackwood
The subterranean concrete vault beneath Falcone Manor smelled of aged limestone, dry dust, and high-grade gun grease.
Maeve slammed the triple-locking three-inch vault door until the hardened steel bolts sheared into their reinforced sockets with a hollow, echoing clang.
Inside, the only light came from a dull amber emergency diode humming near an air filtration vent.
Maeve pulled the heavy cot across the cold concrete floor, settling the shivering form of Elena Falcone onto the thick wool bedding.
Elena’s lips were cracked, her eyelids fluttering behind fevered dreams.
"Roman... Declan..." the younger sister whined, her nails digging weakly into the coarse gray blanket.
"Hush now, Elena," Maeve whispered, kneeling beside her with the nine-millimeter Glock resting on the cement within six inches of her right knee.
"Your brothers are outside."
"Nobody breaches this threshold while I still hold a magazine."
Above them, through two feet of solid granite and steel rebar, the battle erupted.
The first volley of automatic rifle fire sounded like distant dry branches snapping in a firestorm.
Then came the thunderous concussion of a breaching charge blowing the heavy front mahogany doors into matchwood.
The shockwave traveled through the bedrock, rattling the metal shelves of canned emergency rations and tactical reserves stacked against the vault walls.
Maeve counted the thumps, her mind racing with cold calculation.
Three distinct rifles firing high-grain rounds.
Roman’s heavy, rhythmic, deliberate double-taps echoing with sniper-like precision.
Declan’s combat shotgun clearing the grand foyer with deafening, room-shaking booms that shook plaster dust from the ceiling rafters.
Gabriel’s rapid, venomous submachine gun bursts sweeping across the marble stairs like scythes cutting down dry wheat.
For fifteen minutes, the house above groaned under the weight of unrelenting combat.
Shouts, curses in Sicilian dialect, and the crash of shattered safety glass drifted down through the ventilation ducts.
Don Vincent Moretti had brought fifty hitmen to murder the Falcone triplets in their fortress.
What he had forgotten was that the triplets had grown up inside that stone labyrinth.
They had mapped every blind corner, every sightline, and every choke point before they had learned to drive.
A heavy boot suddenly slammed against the metal stairs leading down toward the sub-basement corridor.
Maeve stiffened, her spine turning to liquid steel.
She picked up the Glock, clicked off the thumb safety with a crisp, lethal snap, and raised both arms in a Weaver stance aimed dead center at the vault’s viewing slit.
A shadow crossed the reinforced glass.
Heavy breathing rattled on the outside of the door, accompanied by the wet drip of fresh arterial blood onto the linoleum steps.
"Maeve," a voice gasped.
It was rough, shredded by cordite smoke and exhaustion.
Declan.
Maeve didn't hesitate.
She reached out with her left hand, spun the heavy brass wheel three rotations counter-clockwise, and pulled the vault latch.
Declan Falcone stumbled through the doorway, his massive shoulder covered in crimson where an assault rifle round had grazed the flesh through his shredded leather jacket.
His face was blackened with soot, his knuckles split to the bone, but his gray eyes burned with feral triumph.
Behind him in the corridor, four Moretti foot soldiers lay motionless on the stairs, their weapons scattered across the steps.
Declan dropped his empty shotgun onto the floor, clutching his bleeding side.
"The main foyer is clear," Declan wheezed, sliding down the door frame until he sat flat on the floor.
"Gabriel caught Moretti’s second capo in the west gallery."
"Roman is sweeping the coastal lawn."
Maeve holstered the weapon, grabbed a bottle of medical saline and clean surgical shears from the wall cabinet, and fell to her knees beside the bleeding giant.
She ripped Declan’s torn shirt away from his shoulder with efficient, brutal force.
"Sit still and stop bleeding on my clean towels," she snapped, pouring the stinging antiseptic directly into the open graze.
Declan didn't flinch.
He just stared at her through the haze of smoke and pain, a crooked, bloody grin spreading across his face.
"You're a terrifying woman, Maeve Kelly."
"You're an idiot who charges through choke points without body armor," she retorted, winding tight layers of sterile bandage around his massive chest.
"If you die, who is going to haul the firewood up the cliff tomorrow morning?"
Declan let out a low laugh that turned into a wet cough, his gaze dropping to the sleeping girl on the cot.
"Elena?"
"She's breathing steady," Maeve said softly, securing the bandage with medical tape.
"Her fever broke twenty minutes ago."
"She's safe."
Declan closed his eyes, his heavy head resting back against the cold concrete.
"You saved her twice today."
"I kept her warm," Maeve replied, wiping blood from his cheek with her thumb.
"That's not saving the world, Declan."
"That's just being human."
Before Declan could speak, a second pair of footsteps clicked down the concrete steps.
Roman Falcone walked into the vault.
His charcoal suit was torn, his cuffs soaked in red, but his face was completely impassive, carved from obsidian.
In his gloved hand, he dragged an antique brass safe key and a damp satellite phone.
"Vincent Moretti is in the courtyard," Roman said, his hazel eyes locking onto Maeve’s face with intense possessiveness.
"He is currently down on his knees in the mud, waiting for my judgment."
"Come with me, Miss Kelly."
"Why me?" Maeve asked, standing up from Declan's side.
Roman reached out his hand, his leather glove cold against her bare palm.
May you like
"Because he insulted your name in my house."
"And in the Falcone syndicate, the one who cleans the blood has the final say on where the body falls."
