Chapter 6 - Blood on the Marble
The silence that followed the single gunshot downstairs was heavy, suffocating, and charged with lethal intent. Julian crouched low behind the heavy oak sofa, his ears straining to catch the faintest sound of approaching footsteps. Beside him, Grace held Amara tightly against her chest, the little girl’s face buried in her mother’s shoulder, too terrified to even cry.
"Listen to me very carefully," Julian whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on the parlor door handle. He pulled a small brass key from his pocket and pressed it into Grace’s trembling hand. "Behind the tapestry in the hallway closet is a reinforced panic room. The code is 0-4-2-8. Get inside, lock the door, and do not open it for anyone—do you understand me? Anyone except me."
"Mr. Hale, what about you?" Grace whimpered, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm going to take care of the trash," Julian replied coldly, a dark, lethal smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Go."
He slipped out of the parlor door into the dimly lit hallway just as heavy boots began ascending the grand staircase. Three men, clad in black tactical gear and wearing night-vision goggles, moved in a precise military formation. They were professionals—mercenaries hired by the Bratva to wipe out the Hale bloodline and anyone inside the house.
Julian didn't wait for them to reach the landing.
Pfft. Pfft.
The suppressed pistol in Julian’s hand spat two rapid, deadly projectiles through the semi-darkness. The lead mercenary jerked violently, his chest blossoming with dark red as he pitched backward down the wooden stairs, taking the second man down with him in a tangle of limbs and tactical gear.
The third mercenary reacted with terrifying speed, raising his submachine gun and firing a burst of lead into the drywall right beside Julian’s head. Plaster rained down on Julian’s shoulders as he dove to the floor, rolling behind a marble pillar just as a hail of bullets chewed up the mahogany wainscoting.
"Hale! Your time is up!" a gruff, heavily accented voice shouted from the landing.
Julian didn't answer. He popped up from behind the pillar, firing two quick shots that shattered the mercenary’s weapon and pinned him against the opposite wall. Before the man could draw a backup knife, Julian closed the distance in three long strides, slamming the butt of his pistol against the mercenary’s temple. The man collapsed like a discarded puppet, unconscious on the blood-stained carpet.
Breathing heavily, Julian checked his magazine. Two rounds left.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the rear of the second floor—near the guest suites.
Julian’s heart stopped. They didn't just come up the stairs. They split up.
He broke into a dead sprint down the hallway toward the guest rooms, his boots sliding slightly on the polished floor. As he rounded the corner toward the suite where Grace and Amara were supposed to be hiding, he saw a fourth mercenary standing in front of the panic room door, a heavy breaching charge planted against the reinforced steel frame.
The mercenary’s finger hovered over the detonator.
"Drop it," Julian commanded, leveling his empty-chambered pistol straight at the man's chest, betting everything on the mercenary not knowing his gun was out of ammo.
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The mercenary paused, turning around slowly. A cruel smirk crossed his face beneath his mask. "Too late, Hale."
He slammed his thumb down on the detonator.
