Chapter 8 - The Solarium Siege
Three floors above, the battle in the solarium had reached its lethal climax.
When Isabella had manually engaged the industrial floodlights, the two remaining mercenaries were caught completely off guard, their night-vision goggles instantly burning out their retinas in a blinding white flash.
Dante had used that split second of tactical advantage ruthlessly.
He had closed the distance on the second operator before the man could strip his blinded goggles off, driving the heel of his palm upward into the man's nasal bone with devastating force, disarming him mid-fall, and using the fallen rifle to put three suppressive rounds into the chest of the third gunman diving behind an iron settee.
Now, Dante stood amid the ruins of the solarium. The glass roof was entirely shattered, rain pouring down upon him, soaking his white dress shirt and plastering his dark hair to his forehead. Blood dripped from a shrapnel wound along his jawline, but his breathing was steady, his focus iron-hard.
He picked up the fallen radio from the mercenary’s vest.
"Command," Dante said into the tactical frequency, his voice cutting through the static. "Your assault team on the east and west wings is neutralized. I have your offshore account numbers, your IP routing masks, and your contract manifests from Richard Collins' terminal. The Chicago field office of the FBI has already received the transmission. If another man steps onto my property, I will spend two billion dollars hunting down every single director of your syndicate across five continents."
A long, crackling silence followed on the line. Then, a low, raspy voice replied: "The contract on your life is cancelled, Mr. Moretti. Professional courtesy."
The radio went dead.
Dante dropped the transceiver into the pool of rainwater at his feet. Without pausing to bind his bleeding face, he turned and sprinted down the service stairs toward the basement. His only thought was the dumbwaiter shaft. His only thought was Isabella.
When he reached the lower cellar corridors, he heard the sounds of violent struggle from the inner vault.
Dante drew his backup pistol, rounded the final corner, and burst through the heavy vault door, ready to kill whatever threat remained.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Richard Collins lay sprawled on his back on the concrete floor, his face swollen and bleeding, sobbing like a terrified child. Standing over him, her boot pressed firmly onto Richard's chest and an iron cleaver held loosely in her right hand, was Isabella.
She looked up at Dante. Her hair was tangled, her apron soaked in sweat and dust, but her eyes were completely clear.
"He's secured, Mr. Moretti," Isabella said softly, wiping a smear of drywall from her cheek with the back of her bruised hand. "The state police should be here in four minutes."
Dante slowly lowered his weapon. For the first time in his life, the billionaire who had conquered every financial empire in the Western world felt entirely outmatched by the quiet courage of the woman standing before him.
He walked into the vault, kicked Richard’s dropped knife away, and gently placed his hand over Isabella’s trembling fingers, helping her lower the heavy iron cleaver.
"You saved my life, Isabella," Dante murmured, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. "You saved this entire family."
Isabella took a long, trembling breath, her knees finally threatening to give out as the adrenaline began to drain from her veins. "I just wanted to make sure they didn't get away with it."
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Dante reached out and caught her before she could stumble, pulling her securely against his chest as the distant sirens of fifty federal tactical vehicles began to wail down the long driveway toward the mansion gates.
***
