Chapter 6 - The Bread of LifeThe glass of the bakery’s front window didn't just shatter; it exploded inward in a glittering cascade of lethal shards as the first burst of automatic gunfire tore through the quiet street of Gray Hollow.
"Down!" Luca roared, his massive body lunging across the counter to throw himself over me and the twins as we hit the flour-dusted hardwood floor.
The heavy oak counter absorbed the brunt of the bullets, splinters of wood and chunks of plaster raining down on our heads like a winter storm. Lena began to scream, a high, piercing terror that broke something fundamental inside my chest. Ash didn't scream; he simply clung to my neck, his little heart hammering against my collarbone like a trapped bird.
From the front entryway, Marco returned fire, the deep, rhythmic boom-boom-boom of his heavy-caliber handgun answering the rapid chatter of the Russian weapons.
"Sarah, take the kids into the back room! The industrial ovens have reinforced steel backing!" Luca commanded, his amber eyes flashing with a terrible, beautiful light as he rose to a knee, his own weapon clearing the edge of the counter.
I didn't hesitate. I dragged the twins across the floor, my hands sliding through spilled flour and broken glass, until we broke through the swinging doors into the hot, heavy air of the baking kitchen. Old Mr. Pike was already on the floor behind the metal prep tables, a rolling pin gripped in his shaking hands.
"Get behind the cooling racks!" I yelled to him, shoving the twins into the narrow, steel-lined alcove beneath the massive bread ovens.
Outside, the battle was loud, chaotic, and brutal. The quiet town of Gray Hollow had never heard the sound of a mafia war, but Luca Moretti was teaching them that violence has no geographic boundaries. I heard the sharp, metallic crunch of a car door being ripped off its hinges, followed by a human scream that was cut short by a single, precise shot from Luca’s gun.
"Marco! Left flank! They’re trying to move through the alley!" Luca’s voice boomed through the walls, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
A heavy thud rattled the back door of the kitchen—the wooden door that led to the delivery alley. Someone was throwing their weight against the lock.
Mr. Pike let out a whimper, but I didn't have time for fear. I grabbed the heavy, long-handled brass paddle used for sliding loaves into the deep ovens—an iron-reinforced tool that weighed nearly fifteen pounds. I stood beside the door frame, my breathing shallow, my white apron stained with soot and old blood from a superficial cut on my wrist.
The wooden frame splintered. A tall, bearded man in a leather jacket burst into the room, a submachine gun raised toward the alcove where my children were hiding.
I didn't think about the law. I didn't think about the three years of peace. I thought about the morning I had held my newborns in a cold clinic, promising them I would always protect them.
I swung the brass paddle with the full weight of my torso, striking the man directly across the side of his skull. The impact was a dull, heavy thunk. His eyes rolled back into his head, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the concrete floor as his body crumpled into a heap of dirty leather and spent brass.
The swinging doors to the front shop flew open.
Luca stood there, his sweater torn at the shoulder, a thin line of crimson leaking from a graze on his cheek, but his weapon was low. Behind him, through the shattered storefront, the street was silent again, the black vans sitting empty, their windshields riddled with bullet holes.
He looked at the unconscious Russian on my kitchen floor, then up at the brass paddle still gripped in my shaking hands.
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"You always did have a terrible swing, Sarah," he murmured, a faint, exhausted smile breaking through the grime on his face.
I dropped the paddle, my knees finally giving out as I sank to the floor. Luca crossed the room in two long strides, catching me before I hit the concrete, pulling me into a chest that felt as solid and secure as a fortress.
