Chapter 11 - A Knock in the Dark
The tranquility of that Christmas Eve night shattered at precisely 2:15 AM.
I woke instantly to the sound of Dominic sitting bolt upright in the bed beside me. The room was bathed in the faint blue glow of the falling snow outside.
Dominic’s body was rigid as stone. His hand was already beneath his pillow, gripping the heavy grip of his Beretta.
"Dominic?" I whispered, my heart leaping into my throat. "What is it?"
"Listen," he commanded in a whisper that barely disturbed the air.
Downstairs, the estate’s heavy perimeter alarms hadn't sounded. There was no screech of sirens. But through the silence of the night, a distinct, rhythmic sound echoed from the front door of the cottage.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
Three heavy, hollow knocks against the solid oak wood.
"Stay here," Dominic ordered, slipping out of bed with fluid, lethal silence. He pulled on a pair of dark trousers, leaving his chest bare, his weapon raised at low-ready. "Lock this door behind me. If you hear gunfire, take Rosie out the hidden escape tunnel behind the bathroom cabinet. Do you understand me, Sarah?"
Tears of sudden terror welled in my eyes. "Dominic, don't go down there alone!"
"Lock the door," he repeated, his slate eyes blazing with a terrifying, protective fury.
He slipped out into the dark hallway, moving down the stairs without making a single sound on the hardwood steps.
I couldn't just sit there. Trembling violently, I threw on a robe and crept to the top of the staircase, peering through the banister into the shadowy foyer below.
Dominic reached the bottom of the stairs. He approached the heavy wooden door, his weapon leveled dead center at chest height. Through the frosted side-glass, the shadow of a lone figure stood in the swirling snow on the porch.
Dominic didn't open the door. He clicked off the safety of his gun with a sharp, metallic *snap*.
"Identify yourself," Dominic growled, his voice carrying through the wood. "Or I put three hollow-points through this door."
A voice answered from outside. It was a raspy, shaking voice, slurred by cold and desperation. A voice that had haunted my nightmares for four long years.
"Dominic Moretti!" the man shouted through the wood, coughing violently. "Don't shoot! I didn't come here to fight you!"
Upstairs, my breath froze in my lungs. My blood turned to liquid ice.
It was Mark.
"Mark?" I gasped, the name slipping past my lips before I could stop it.
Dominic didn't turn, but his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. "Mark Miller. You have five seconds to tell me why I shouldn't execute you on this porch."
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"Because you don't know what's coming!" Mark screamed through the door, his voice cracking with hysterical terror. "The Falcones didn't hire Kruse to collect a debt, Dominic! It was a diversion! They used me to track your security blind spots! They’re already inside the perimeter gates! There are twenty armed men in the woods right now, and they aren't here for me—they're here to wipe out the Moretti bloodline tonight!"
Before Dominic could respond, the red lasers of multiple tactical rifles sliced through the frosted glass of the front window, painting a cluster of deadly red dots directly across Dominic’s chest.
