Chapter 4 - The Manor Under Siege
The gunfire was rhythmic, disciplined—the distinct cadence of automatic rifles firing in controlled bursts. Glass shattered in the gallery two floors below, followed by the muffled shouting of men dying in the dark.
Moreva didn't hesitate. In a single fluid motion, he pulled an automatic pistol from beneath his coat and racked the slide. "Marco! Lev!" he barked into the radio clipped to his lapel.
Only static hissed back.
"They cut the internal repeaters," Moreva growled, sliding his radio away. He moved to the grand window, parting the heavy velvet drapes just enough to glimpse the perimeter. Floodlights were blinking out one by one across the manicured lawns. Black SUVs with reinforced grilles had breached the perimeter gate, their tires churning through the ancient rose gardens.
Don Vittorio let out a panicked moan, struggling to lift his frail limbs from the wheelchair. Clara instinctively bent over the old man, shielding his head with her arms and upper body, bracing for the worst.
"Get him up," Moreva ordered, his voice cold, steady, and devoid of the rage that had burned moments prior. "The south elevator is dead if they hit the generator. We take the service stairwell to the wine cellars."
"He can barely stand, sir," Clara cried over the increasing crackle of weapon fire from the foyer below. "The medicine has weakened his legs for weeks!"
Without a word, Moreva holstered his weapon, knelt before his father, and hoisted the withered patriarch onto his broad back with practiced, ruthless efficiency. "Hold on to my neck, old man, if you still want to see your grandchild take a breath."
Clara grabbed the silver candelabra from the sideboard—not for light, but as the only weapon within reach. She followed Moreva toward the concealed pantry entrance, stepping around the puddle of poisoned tonic and broken glass.
They pushed through the narrow servant corridors, where the sound of the assault reverberated through the ventilation shafts. Footsteps were pounding up the grand marble staircase behind them. Heavy tactical boots. Professional mercenaries, not street thugs.
"Mercer sold us out," Clara whispered, hurried breaths catching in her chest as she struggled to keep pace despite the pain radiating from her ribs and wrists. "Gable wasn't acting alone. There was a ledger... I saw her hiding documents in the study last week."
"Save your breath for running," Moreva replied, navigating the dark, spiral stone steps that led deep into the estate's foundations.
They reached the heavy iron door of the sub-cellar. Moreva hit the release lever, but the heavy lock didn't yield. A mechanical click echoed through the iron plating, followed by a soft, mocking laugh from the darkness behind them.
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From the shadows of the arched stone hallway, a man stepped into the beam of emergency lighting, a silenced submachine gun resting casually in his hands.
"You always were predictable, big brother," a voice purred.
