Chapter 15 - The Price Of The Bloodline
I didn't deliberate. In the darkest corners of human survival, thought is an unnecessary luxury; only blood remains. I gently placed Mateo and Clara in the deep, padded laundry basket at the rear of the pantry, wrapping them tightly in the down quilt so that even their small whimpers were muffled by feathers.
I took the carbon steel knife in my right hand and the heavy iron skillet in my left. My breathing slowed. The trembling in my fingers stopped completely. The terrified girl who had cried on a Chicago balcony on her fifth anniversary died in that dark pantry, and in her place rose the mother of Dante Vance’s heirs.
I cracked the pantry door open an inch.
The living room was an abattoir of shattered cedar and smoke. Dante was on his knees before the ruined stone fireplace, his hands zip-tied behind his back. His face was a mask of crimson; a deep cut split his brow, and his left shoulder was dislocated, hanging unnaturally. Standing over him was Roman Vance, dressed in an immaculate charcoal cashmere overcoat that seemed obscene amid the carnage. Two masked mercenaries in black tactical gear stood by the blown-out window, their rifles aimed outward into the snow, guarding against unseen threats.
"You always looked down on me," Roman said, stepping forward and driving the toe of his polished Oxford shoe directly into Dante’s broken ribs.
Dante let out a ragged wheeze, coughing a spray of blood onto Roman’s trousers, but he didn't scream. He raised his head, his swollen eyes blazing with pure, venomous hatred. "You were always second-rate, Roman. Father knew it. The board knew it. Even the whores you paid knew it."
Roman’s face twisted in rage. He drew a suppressed Walther PPK from his breast pocket and leveled it directly at Dante’s forehead. "Let's see what the board thinks when the probate court awards me full conservatorship of your little bastards' trust fund. Where is she, Dante? Last chance."
"Go to hell," Dante whispered.
Roman smiled—a cold, sickening peel of lips. "I'll find them myself. A cabin this small doesn't have many closets."
He turned on his heel, taking three steps directly toward the hallway—directly toward the pantry where my babies lay.
I didn't wait. As Roman stepped past the doorframe, I lunged from the shadows with every ounce of momentum in my body.
I didn't use the knife first. I swung the six-pound cast-iron skillet with two hands like a baseball bat, putting the entire torque of my hips behind it.
The heavy iron connected with the side of Roman’s skull with a sickening, hollow *CRACK*.
Roman’s eyes rolled back instantly, his gun clattering to the floor as his legs gave out beneath him, his tall frame collapsing like a felled timber onto the broken floorboards.
"Roman!" one of the mercenaries shouted from the living room, spinning his rifle toward the hallway.
"Lena, down!" Dante roared from the floor.
Dante didn't wait for his zip-ties to be cut. Using his bound arms for balance, he surged upward from his knees, throwing his entire two-hundred-pound body like a missile into the legs of the nearest mercenary. The man went down hard, his rifle discharging into the ceiling as plaster rained down.
I lunged forward, grabbing Roman’s fallen Walther PPK from the floor. I had never fired a handgun in my life, but Dante’s relentless instruction during our first year of marriage flashed across my mind like lightning: *Firm grip. Both hands. Don't pull the trigger; squeeze it.*
The second mercenary turned toward me, his assault rifle rising.
I squeezed.
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The suppressed gunshot was a soft, sharp *phut*. The bullet caught the mercenary in the upper chest. He stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock, before I squeezed the trigger a second time. The second round struck his neck. He collapsed backward through the shattered bay window, disappearing into the snowdrift outside.
The living room went dead silent, save for the whistling blizzard wind and Dante’s ragged, wheezing gasps.
