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“They were…” she sobbed, her fingers clamped around my neck forcefully. “They were going… to hurt… me.”
“Sshhh… You have to be quiet,” I whispered in her ear. “There could be more of them.”
The moon streaming in through the window allowed me to see her nod. I heard thumping from the floor above. My parents were awake. For all I knew, the entire house was crawling with enemy soldiers. I wiped blood from my face, trying to figure out what the hell to do. Where were our damn men watching the house?
There were more shots, at least six.
She was still crying, trying to wrap her leg around me. “Listen to me. I have to find out what’s going on.”
“No! You can’t leave me.”
“Tat, I have to.” I walked her toward the closet, keeping my weapon pointed toward the hallway. Then I opened the closet door as quietly as possible. My father had special panic rooms build in every bedroom and several other locations. I’d called him nuts. Now I wanted to praise him. Once inside, there was almost no way to penetrate the area. My sister hated it, the drills my father had insisted on giving her nightmares for weeks, but I had no other choice.
“No, please. Please. I’ll hide under the bed.”
I forced her onto her feet, shaking her so she’d listen to me. “You don’t understand. If they capture you, I’ll never see you again. I promise I won’t be long.”
“Promise. Promise?”
“Have I ever broken a promise to you?”
She shook her head. The motherfuckers were going to pay for terrorizing my sister. Tears continued to run down her cheeks, her entire body quivering. I gently pushed the concealed button, cringing when I heard another two shots. They were far too close for comfort.
While she tried to be brave, I could sense every emotion, the horror that wouldn’t leave her for a long time. When she was safely inside, I closed the door then bolted toward the hallway, peering around the door jamb. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs and turned toward them, lifting and holding my weapon in both hands.
“Prendi il bastardo,” one of them hissed.
My mother screamed.
More gunshots.
Hard thumps.
Loud voices.
When the second asshole fired, I was forced to jump back, the bullet slamming into the wall next to me.
Italian. Jesus Christ. The damn Mafioso was attacking us. I didn’t hesitate, popping off several rounds, the rage boosting my adrenaline. I jumped over them just as they dropped to the floor, racing up the stairs. Our soldiers were still MIA, which wasn’t a good sign. While I knew the staff would be hiding in their rooms, the men my father employed as enforcers should have broken down the goddamn door by now.
As soon as I made it to the landing, I noticed my mother out of the corner of my eye. She was fighting with one of the assholes who was trying to pin her down. My mother was small but mighty, able to handle herself in almost any situation, but not this time. She yelped, trying to kick him. I moved forward without hesitation, smacking him against the side of the head.
Then I popped three shots into him. This was getting out of hand.
My mother was able to kick him off, gasping for air as she crawled up the wall.
“Your father. I think he’s been shot.”
“Are there more of them on this floor?” I asked, already heading toward their bedroom, pulling her behind me.
“There were three, but two of them left.”
Reaching down, I tossed her the asshole’s weapon then headed into the bedroom. My father was on the floor facedown. “Papa.” I rolled him over, fearful he was gone. Blood covered a portion of his tee shirt, but from what I could tell, he’d been hit in the shoulder. “Wake up, Papa.”
I had to find out what we were dealing with. I grabbed my father’s phone from the nightstand, then moved to the window, darting glances outside. Even with the moonlight, it was impossible to tell if there were more. I dialed my father’s main enforcer. Sergei was always on duty. He never left his post.
No answer.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” I tried Ivan. No answer. Then Josh, the only American my father had decided to trust. He’d become my best friend over the last few years even if he was a few years older. He’d pledged allegiance to my father without hesitation, protecting my family as if it was his own. We’d played football together, my father too busy to toss a ball with me. Hell, the man had shown me boxing moves better than any of the other soldiers could issue.
