Chapter 4 - Blood and Iron
"Who found us?" I demanded, grabbing Sebastian’s sleeve as the sound of boots rushed up to the second-floor landing.
"My grandfather's enforcers," Sebastian said, his voice dangerously calm. He shoved me back toward the hallway leading to the children's bedroom. "Get in the back room. Lock the door. Do not come out for any reason."
"I'm not leaving you!"
"Elena, listen to me!" Sebastian barked, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise. "They aren't here to negotiate. They're here to clean up a loose end that threatens the Vale estate. If they get past me, my children have no father."
The front door of the apartment splintered inward with a deafening crack as a heavy iron battering ram tore through the deadbolts.
Three men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by ski masks and holding suppressed submachine guns, poured into the narrow living room.
Sebastian didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, sweeping the legs out from under the lead enforcer with brutal, practiced precision, sending the man crashing through a cheap coffee table. As the second man raised his weapon, Sebastian caught the barrel, wrenching it upward just as a volley of silenced bullets chewed through the plaster ceiling.
"Get in the back!" Sebastian roared at me.
I scrambled backward into the hallway, slamming the bedroom door shut and throwing the heavy brass slide lock just as bodies slammed against the outer wood.
Inside the dark bedroom, Noah, Ivy, and Owen woke up crying, their small wails piercing the muffled sounds of violence echoing from the living room.
"Mommy! Mommy!" Owen screamed.
"I'm here, babies, I'm right here," I sobbed, rushing to the bed and pulling all three of them into a tight, trembling pile on the mattress, covering their ears with my hands while my own heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Outside the door, the sounds were terrifying: grunts of pain, shattering glass, heavy thuds against the drywall, and the low, menacing growl of men tearing an apartment apart.
Then, silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence that felt louder than the gunfire.
"Sebastian?" I whispered, my voice shaking so badly I could barely form the syllables.
No answer.
With shaking hands, I unslid the brass lock, pushed the bedroom door open a fraction of an inch, and peeked out into the living room.
The apartment was wrecked. The coffee table was splintered into kindling, the window was shattered out into the winter night, and two men in tactical gear were slumped unconscious against the walls.
Standing in the center of the carnage was Sebastian.
His coat was torn, his knuckles were bruised and bleeding, and a dark streak of blood trickled down from a cut on his forehead. But he was standing. He held a suppressed pistol he must have stripped from one of the intruders, his chest heaving as he scanned the room for any sign of movement.
He turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto mine through the cracked doorway.
"Are they safe?" he asked, his voice ragged.
"Yes," I choked out, tears streaming freely down my face. "They're safe."
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Sebastian let out a long, shuddering breath, lowering the weapon. He walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up his phone, and dialed a number with his bloody thumb.
"Rocco," Sebastian said into the screen. "Clean up 422 Atlantic Avenue. And tell the pilot to warm up the jet. We're going to pay my grandfather a visit."
