“That sounded like it came from the front gate,” I state flatly.
Another resounding crash echoes around us, the vibrations rippling the floor beneath my feet, and the following screech of metal on metal is like nails on a chalkboard that sends a shiver down my spine.
Then sharp footsteps rush across the marble floor below us. Leo and I share a glance, then bolt for the stairs, racing toward the source of the disturbance.
Staff members flit across the entry in every direction, their expressions frightened, their movements tense and hurried.
Several of the guards stationed around the property come barreling through the front door, nearly knocking the family butler off his feet as they burst inside.
“What’s going on?” Leo demands, striding purposefully toward them.
I’m right behind, my eyes searching through the open door for any immediate threat.
“We’re under attack,” one man gasps, his face pale and slick with sweat. “They’ve battered through the front gates, sir—they’re already inside the property lines.”
“Who is?” Leo asks, as we reach the front door.
“From what I can tell? The Irish, the Russians… the Japanese.”
“What?” my brother growls, his tone incredulous.
I’ll admit, as little as I trusted the Tanaka family, I didn’t expect they would openly betray us.
Not after selling off their only daughter to marry our future Don.
Glass shatters to our left, and someone screams as a Molotov cocktail flies through the window, exploding in a liquid burst of flame against the wall.
Fury rips through me, and I grab a fistful of Leo’s suit, shoving him further into the protection of our home as I storm outside to assess the situation.
There’s no gunfire—not yet, at least—which tells me the Japanese are leading the charge.
Their skill with close combat and blades means they’ve probably killed our men stationed at the front gate—which they’ve battered down.
Smoke billows from the guard’s booth to the east of the brick pillars that used to secure the wrought iron entry point.
Now, the sturdy metal has been bent and twisted into a grizzly, gaping maw that spews silent Yakuza warriors and smirking Russians, knives and makeshift explosives in hand.
Leading the charge is Kenji—head of the Tanaka-kai and Sora’s older brother. Unlike his men, who wield a combination of blades, Kenji has a Russian Makarov, much like the one Pyotr Novikov—reigningPakhanof the Novikov Bratva—is holding.
It would seem the Murrays have entered the fray as well—those Irish bastards who entice my brother Sandro into their fighting pits every week like we’re friends.
Kenji leans out the open door of his SUV, flat palm pounding on the roof as he shouts in Japanese, and the Escalade comes screeching to a stop at the foot of our front steps, spraying gravel far enough to reach me.
Leo emerges from the house beside me, his expression grim.
“Get back inside,” I command, pushing him toward the house once again.
“Not a chance. I’m going to kill that bastard,” he growls, his eyes locked on Kenji.
“Do you have a gun?” I demand, continuing to force him backward as I shield him with my body.
“I don’t need a gun. I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” Leo snarls.
If I had any doubts about his feelings for Sora, they’re gone now.
Leo’s half crazed with bloodlust, and I know it’s because Kenji nearly got her killed while we were supposed to be having a relaxing day on the yacht yesterday.
But right now, we don’t have time to settle petty scores.
