Chapter 9 - The Line in the Blood
Smoke and splintered mahogany filled the entryway.
Two masked men in tactical gear burst through the breached doorway, automatic rifles raised.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He dropped low, firing twice with deadly precision. The first gunman collapsed instantly, his weapon clattering across the carpet. Vincent lunged forward, using the falling body as a human shield while returning fire at the second assailant.
Gunshots deafened the small living room. Glass shattered. Mirrors exploded into shards.
From behind the bedroom doorway, Emily shrieked, burying her face into my neck. I held her with every ounce of strength in my body, shielding her small frame with my own, backing toward the tiled bathroom.
“Move, Elena! Get in!” Vincent roared, firing around the corner.
A third shooter appeared in the corridor, spraying the entryway with high-caliber rounds. Vincent spun, stepping directly into the line of fire to keep the bullets from entering the bedroom where Emily and I huddled.
A sickening *thwack* echoed above the gunfire.
Vincent gasped, his body jerking violently as a bullet tore into his left shoulder, followed by another grazing his ribs. Blood immediately soaked his white shirt, spreading in a gruesome crimson tide.
“Vincent!” the scream tore from my throat involuntarily.
Despite the devastating impact, he didn't fall. With sheer, unholy willpower, Vincent raised his weapon with his right hand and emptied the remaining rounds into the hallway, neutralizing the final threat.
Silence crashed over the suite, broken only by the screeching fire alarm and Vincent’s ragged, wheezing gasps.
He leaned heavily against the shattered doorframe, his gun dropping from his trembling fingers. Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips onto the ruined carpet.
He slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, clutching his chest. Yet, his gaze immediately sought out Emily.
“Are you... are you hurt?” he whispered weakly, blood bubbling at the corner of his lip. “Emily... is she safe?”
Emily pulled back from my embrace. She looked at the bloody man on the floor, then at me. Her little chin trembled, but she didn't run away.
“You’re bleeding,” Emily whispered, taking an unsteady step toward him.
“Stay back, sweetheart,” Vincent rasped, attempting a faint, reassuring smile through the agony. “Don’t look at this.”
I rushed forward, ripping the linen bedsheet into long strips. “Press this against your shoulder, you idiot!” I commanded, tears streaming down my face as I applied pressure to his wound.
Vincent looked up at me, his vision blurring, his hand weakly brushing against mine. “You came back... to help me.”
“I’m keeping my daughter’s father alive,” I choked out. “Don’t make me regret it.”
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Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway again—this time accompanied by the shouts of familiar Italian voices. Vincent’s personal reinforcements had finally breached the floor.
***
