But another explosion rocks the mansion, and I hear Adrian’s men getting closer.
I don’t have time to argue, and I can’t protect her if I’m worried about her being defenseless.
I pull the backup Glock from my ankle holster and press it into her palm. “Safety’s off. Point and shoot. Aim for center mass.”
She nods, her fingers wrapping around the grip with surprising confidence. “My father taught me when I was sixteen. Before everything went to hell.”
Of course he did. Vincent Moretti might have been a bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the world his daughter lived in, even if she didn’t understand it yet.
I take her free hand and pull her toward the service staircase at the end of the hall.
It’s narrow and dark, used only by staff, which means Adrian’s men might not know about it.
Mightbeing the operative word.
We’re halfway down when I hear footsteps above us. Heavy boots. Multiple sets.
“Keep moving,” I whisper, pushing Sophia ahead of me. “Don’t stop no matter what you hear.”
The staircase opens into the kitchen, and we emerge into chaos.
Elena is crouched behind the island, her face pale.
Two of my men are exchanging fire with attackers near the pantry. The air is thick with smoke.
“Elena!” Sophia starts toward her, but I grab her arm.
“We can’t help her if we’re dead.” The words taste like ash, but they’re true. I catch Elena’s eye and gesture toward the wine cellar. She nods, understanding. The tunnels.
A bullet pierces the wall next to my head, so close I feel the heat of it.
I return fire, dropping one of Adrian’s men with two shots to the chest. He crumples, and another takes his place immediately.
“Go!” I shove Sophia toward the cellar door. “I’ll cover you.”
She doesn’t argue, just runs.
I lay down suppressing fire, my bullets forcing Adrian’s men to take cover.
One of my own men goes down, clutching his throat. I don’t have time to check if he’s alive.
I back toward the cellar, still firing. My magazine clicks empty, and I eject it, slamming in a fresh one with practiced efficiency. The motion is automatic, muscle memory from decades of violence.
The cellar door slams shut behind me, and I throw the bolt. It won’t hold long, but it might buy us a few minutes.
If Elena makes out of the kitchen, she’s got a key.
I take the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing off the stone walls. Sophia is waiting at the bottom, the gun still in her hand.
Her face is smudged with soot, her hair wild, but her eyes are clear. Focused.
“This way.” I grab her hand again and pull her deeper into the cellar, past rows of wine bottles that probably cost more than most people make in a year.
None of it matters now.
The hidden door is behind a rack of 1947 Château d’Yquem.
I shove the rack aside, the bottles clinking together, and punch in the code.
