Chapter 4 - The Threat in the Street
Christian ended the call, slipping the phone into his pocket, his gaze returning to Emma.
He took two slow, careful steps forward, lowering himself onto one knee on the linoleum, bringing his imposing frame down so he was level with our daughter.
"Hello, Emma," Christian said softly, his deep baritone carrying an infinite, trembling gentleness.
Emma peeked around my hip. She studied his scarred knuckles, his tailored suit, and the dark hair that mirrored her own.
"Are you Oliver's papa?" she asked, her voice clear and fearless.
"I am," Christian smiled faintly, a tear glistening at the corner of his eye. "And I am very grateful to you for giving him your soup."
"My mama made the soup," Emma explained proudly. "I only gave him the floating boats."
Christian looked up at me, his eyes holding a profound, unshakeable devotion that six years of separation had failed to extinguish. "Your mother makes the best soup in the world, Emma."
A sudden, sharp metallic crack shattered the front living room window.
The sound of high-caliber rifle fire ripped through the quiet bungalow, blowing out the plaster wall above the sofa, showering the room in white dust and shattered glass.
Christian moved with blinding, apex predator speed.
In a fraction of a second, his massive arms swept both Emma and Oliver off their feet, pulling them beneath his broad chest as he threw himself onto the floor behind the solid oak breakfast counter.
"Get down, Sophia!" Christian roared, drawing a black custom Kimber .45 from beneath his arm.
Outside, the screech of tires and the rapid, concussive bark of automatic weapons echoed down 31st Avenue as Christian’s two bodyguards returned fire on the street.
"Marco!" Christian shouted into his collar microphone. "We have multiple hostiles on the perimeter! Two assault vehicles! Neutralize the shooters and bring the armored transport to the front porch now!"
Emma was crying beneath Christian’s chest, her small hands clutching his silk tie, while Oliver buried his face in his sister’s sweater.
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Christian looked down at both children, his body acting as an impenetrable iron shield.
"I have you," Christian whispered fiercely, his voice a steady rock in the middle of the gunfire. "Nobody touches my children. Nobody."
