Judging by the numbers, Kenji and his allies aren’t here to send a message.
They’ve come to raze us to the ground.
“Yeah, well Kenji has a gun, so you’re going to need more than that to get close to him,” I point out, giving Leo another shove.
This time, he doesn’t resist, and with another snarl, he turns back toward the entry—no doubt to find the closest firearm he can use to put a bullet between Kenji’s eyes.
“Hold them off as long as you can,” I command the two guards, taking cover behind the pillars of the front porch and leaning out to place carefully aimed shots. I need to stay close to Leo.
He’s in no state of mind to be left to his own devices.
And considering he’s the heir to the Chiaroscuro empire, I have no doubt he’s going to be the main target in this attack.
But before I can reach the front door, glass shatters against the threshold.
Flames erupt between me and the foyer, liquid accelerant splattering my suit as they trap me outside.
With a snarl, I whirl, drawing one of my knives from inside my suit jacket as I find the culprit who tried to set me on fire.
With the flick of my wrist, I embed the blade in the throat of a Russian on the bottom steps of the patio.
He topples backward, choking on his own blood as he grabs for the handle.
In a matter of minutes, the courtyard has devolved into utter chaos. Our men are dropping like flies, too outnumbered and caught off guard to stand against a force this size.
White-hot rage rips through me as the enemy reaches the shattered windows of our family home, clambering inside at a rate I couldn’t stop if I wanted. But that won’t stop me from trying.
Roaring, I draw the pistols holstered beneath my jacket, cocking and aiming them at anyone who dares come too close.
I fire over thirty rounds in a matter of seconds, taking almost that many men down before my guns give the hollow click of an empty chamber.
“Merda!” I growl, shoving the guns back into their holsters and reaching for my knives as I whirl to face the door once more.
The fire has spread, turning into a blaze as it eats up the wooden doorframe, but beyond the flames and heat that ripples the air above them, my gaze lands on a sight that stops my heart in my chest.
Don Augusta is on his knees in the foyer, his chin raised defiantly even as he keeps his empty hands resting on his thighs, palm up in a show of submission.
And looming over him is none other than Pyotr Novikov.
I’ve never liked the Bratva boss.
He’s crass, distasteful, and—though he’s well-liked in the higher echelons of Chicago’s elite society—I’ve always thought something about him seemed… off.
Maybe it’s the glint in his eye, or his charm that he’s capable of switching off and on like a light.
But he’s always seemed vindictive to me—or worse, psychotic.
And right now, he has my adoptive father kneeling before him, entirely at his mercy.
Time slows as my brain works to process the scene that unfolds before me.
My feet feel glued to the concrete porch, the heat of the flames a solid wall between me and the man I vowed to protect.
I might be Leo’s bodyguard, but Don Augusta is the man who took me in when no one else would.
He raised me up and made me into the man I am today.
And yet, here I stand, utterly helpless as Pyotr raises his gun, resting the nose of his Makarov against my father’s forehead.
