Chapter 5 - The Siege of the Chateau
The front doors of the Serrano estate were made of three-inch solid oak backed by a steel plate, designed to withstand a grenade blast. But thirty men armed with hydraulic rams and military-grade breaching charges didn't need subtlety; they needed noise, and they needed blood.
Boom.
The sound rolled through the grand foyer like a thunderclap, shattering the imported crystal chandelier hanging forty feet above the marble staircase. Shards of glass rained down like diamonds, clicking against the stone floor.
Damiano stood at the top of the grand staircase, his dark suit jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun resting comfortably in his right hand. Beside him, deployed in tactical positions along the wrought-iron balcony, were six of his most trusted enforcers. The other eight were securing the perimeter exits.
"Hold your fire until they clear the foyer," Damiano's voice rang out, cold and flat, cutting through the chaos. "Let them taste the room first."
Down below, the heavy oak doors splintered inward with a screech of tearing metal and broken bolts.
Through the dust and smoke poured six men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by balaclavas, automatic rifles raised. They fanned out with frightening efficiency, sweeping the corners of the grand foyer—only to find themselves standing in an empty, echoing marble tomb.
"Clear!" one of them shouted into his radio comm. "First floor is—"
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
Fire erupted from the balcony above. Two of Marcone’s enforcers dropped instantly, their bodies spinning as they hit the marble floor, blood blooming dark across their tactical vests. The remaining four scrambled frantically behind marble pillars and antique velvet sofas as return fire chewed chunks out of the banisters and walls.
"Push the advantage!" Damiano commanded, stepping over the balcony rail and dropping ten feet to the floor below with cat-like grace, his MP5 barking rhythmically as he advanced behind a wall of suppressing fire.
The hallway turned into a meat grinder.
In Damiano’s world, mercy was a luxury for people who didn't have daughters. Every bullet he fired was calculated, precise, and fatal. Within three minutes, the foyer was silent again, save for the groans of the wounded and the acrid smell of cordite hanging thick in the air.
Dante jogged up beside him, reloading a magazine into his pistol. "That was just the advance team, boss. Marcone’s main force is coming through the west service tunnel. They’re heading straight for the staff quarters."
Damiano’s blood ran cold.
Marina. And Nina.
"Dante, take four men and secure the west wing," Damiano ordered, spinning on his heel. "Get them out through the drainage culvert behind the greenhouse."
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"And you?" Dante asked.
"I’m going to the nursery," Damiano said, his jaw set like iron. "Because if Marcone’s men are using the service tunnel, they aren't looking for Marina. They're looking for the girl who went down there this morning."
