Chapter 9 - The Blood on the Marble
Twenty minutes passed.
To me, inside the soundproof safe room, those twenty minutes felt like twenty years. The distant thrum of gunfire had gradually quieted, replaced by a eerie, suffocating silence.
Suddenly, the steel door hissed. The heavy electronic bolts disengaged, and the door slid open.
I sprang to my feet, holding a heavy metal flashlight like a weapon.
Leo stood in the opening. His suit jacket was gone, his white shirt covered in dirt and gunpowder residue, but he was alive.
"It's over," Leo said softly, blowing out a long, exhausted breath. "The estate security held the line. Moretti’s men are retreating back to the city."
"Liam?" I gasped, pushing past him into the closet.
"He's in the bedroom," Leo called after me. "Clara, wait—"
I burst out of the closet and stopped dead in my tracks.
The grand master suite was decimated. The floor-to-ceiling windows were shattered, bullet holes peppered the plaster walls, and the dark Persian rug was stained with oil and blood.
In the center of the room, sitting on the edge of the ruined bed, was Liam.
He was breathing heavily, his head hanging low. His right leg was stretched out in front of him—the external fixator was bent, two of the steel pins pulled partially out of the skin, dripping fresh, dark red blood onto the floor. He had taken a grazing bullet wound across his left shoulder, blood soaking through his black T-shirt.
"Liam!" I screamed, rushing forward and dropping to my knees beside his leg.
"I told you... I wouldn't fall," he rasped, lifting his head slowly. His icy eyes were bloodshot, but when he saw me, the tension in his shoulders visibly collapsed. "You're okay."
"I'm okay! You idiot, look at your leg!" I cried, my hands hovering frantically over the damaged fixator. "The pins shifted! You've torn the bone tissue!"
"I'm breathing, Clara," he whispered, reaching out with his blood-stained hand to touch my face. His fingers were warm, trembling slightly as he brushed away a tear I hadn't realized I was crying. "My house is secure. My people are safe. And you're alive."
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"You could have died!" I sobbed, pressing my cheek into his calloused palm, ignoring the dirt and copper smell of blood on his skin. "You could have bled out right here!"
"Not before Friday," he murmured, a soft, weary smile touching his lips. "I still owe you another ten thousand."
