Chapter 9
The bright, airy light of the crystal chandeliers illuminated the three heavily armed intruders perfectly. They were Sloane syndicate mercenaries, their faces obscured by dark balaclavas, their assault rifles raised and sweeping the luminous dining room.
Dorian did not hesitate. His reflexes, honed by years of surviving the brutal underworld, were instantaneous.
"Did you forget whose house you entered?" Dorian asked, his deep voice slicing through the chaos just as he pulled the trigger.
The roar of his handgun was deafening in the enclosed space. The first mercenary collapsed backward into the marble corridor, his chest armor shattered. The other two spun toward the sound of Dorian's voice, opening fire.
Bullets tore through the luxurious interior, shattering the crystal glasses and shredding the low arrangements of white roses. The tall ivory candles exploded into wax and flame. Dorian moved with lethal, masculine grace, diving behind the thick marble column near the head of the table.
"Are you reloading?" Dorian shouted over the deafening echoes, counting the rounds fired by the second mercenary.
As the mercenary’s rifle clicked empty, Dorian stepped out from cover. Two precise, measured shots echoed through the room. The second man crumpled to the thick patterned rug, his weapon clattering against the polished floor.
The third mercenary, realizing he was severely outmatched by the mafia boss, panicked. He spotted the edge of the overturned mahogany table and the black fabric of Cora's maid dress. He lunged forward, grabbing Cora by her neatly tied white apron, hauling her violently to her feet and pressing the barrel of his rifle against her temple.
Maisie screamed, scrambling back against the wall, her small hands covering her face.
The dining room fell into a terrifying, ringing silence. The warm golden light cast long, dramatic shadows across the standoff.
Cora’s heart hammered against her ribs. Her softly oval face was pale, but she kept her eyes locked on Dorian, her delicate cheekbones catching the light. She did not scream or beg. She trusted the man standing ten feet away from her.
"Drop the gun, Hale!" the mercenary yelled, his American accent thick with adrenaline and fear. "Drop it, or the maid dies!"
Dorian stood perfectly still. His broad shoulders were squared, his tailored dark suit untouched by the violence. His cold, observant eyes analyzed the angles, the distance, and the tremor in the mercenary's hands. The refined artistic tattoos on his hands gripped his weapon with absolute, unshakeable stability.
"Do you believe she is just a maid?" Dorian asked, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that echoed off the carved walnut paneling.
"What?" the mercenary stammered, confused by the strange question.
"Do you think I would let you live long enough to pull that trigger?" Dorian asked.
"I said drop it!" the mercenary screamed, adjusting his grip on Cora.
In that microsecond of movement, as the mercenary shifted his weight, Dorian fired a single, perfect shot.
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The bullet grazed the white collar of Cora's uniform and struck the mercenary squarely between the eyes. The man went entirely rigid before collapsing backward onto the floor, releasing his grip on the housemaid.
Cora stumbled forward, gasping for breath. Dorian caught her effortlessly, his powerful arm wrapping securely around her cinched waist, pulling her against his solid chest.
