Chapter 17 - Bloodlines and Broken Glass
The move to Sorrento was scheduled for dusk, but Clara refused to be a caged bird who panicked at the first rustle of leaves.
"We have an appointment with Madame Cassani in Positano at two o'clock for the final lace fitting," Clara told Ricardo in the grand library, standing firm against his demand for an immediate bunker lockdown. "If we cancel, every informant in Campania will know the Morettis are hiding under the bed because of a piece of paper."
Ricardo glared at her, hands braced on the mahogany credenza. "This isn't a board meeting, Clara. Silvano De Luca doesn't make hollow threats. He’s sixty years old, psychotic, and commands five hundred soldiers who don't care about collateral damage."
"And you command respect," Clara fired back, closing the distance between them and placing her palm against his chest. "Show fear now, and they will hunt Leo on his way to school next year. We go to the fitting. Marco takes four covert vehicles. We act completely normal. If they strike, we catch them in the open."
Ricardo stared down into her determined eyes, a grudging spark of admiration cutting through his protective fury. "You have become far too comfortable with tactical warfare, Miss Vance."
"I learned from the best, Mr. Moretti."
Two hours later, the convoy of two nondescript black Mercedes sedans wound along the narrow, cliff-hugging roads leading into Positano. Leo was left at the villa under the watchful guard of Mrs. Gable and four ex-Italian special forces operatives inside the property's panic room.
The bridal boutique of Madame Cassani sat nestled on a steep pedestrian alleyway overlooking the colorful cascading villas of Positano. The scent of lavender sachets and steam filled the sunlit salon as Clara stood on the circular podium, dressed in an intricate gown of French chantilly lace that trailed across the hardwood floor.
Ricardo stood near the curtained archway, wearing an unbuttoned linen jacket that easily concealed the customized Beretta beneath his arm. Marco stood outside near the boutique’s glass entrance, sipping an espresso while his eyes tracked the pedestrian flow.
Through the salon’s floor-to-ceiling glass display, the afternoon sun suddenly blinked out.
A heavy flatbed delivery truck barreled down the narrow cobblestone lane, its engine roaring violently as it ignored the pedestrian bollards, smashing through them with a horrific shriek of twisting metal.
"Down!" Ricardo roared.
He launched himself across the salon just as the truck’s rear doors swung open, revealing three men armed with automatic shotguns.
Crash!
The boutique’s plate-glass storefront exploded inward into thousands of razor-sharp shards. Clara dropped instantly to the carpeted floor behind the heavy velvet sofa, dragging Madame Cassani down with her by the collar of her dress.
Gunfire ripped through the bridal salon, shredding silk gowns, splintering mannequin displays, and pulverizing the plaster walls into blinding white dust.
Ricardo did not flinch. Drawing his sidearm, he dropped to one knee, leaned around the marble pillar, and fired three double-taps with chilling precision. The lead shooter in the truck slumped over the tailgate, his shotgun clattering to the cobblestones.
Marco engaged from the flank, taking down the second attacker with two rounds through the truck’s side mirror.
The third gunman, realizing the ambush had collapsed, tossed a dark canister onto the salon rug. Smoke hissed violently from the nozzle—not tear gas, but military-grade flash-blind smoke.
Through the billowing white fog, heavy footsteps charged toward the sofa where Clara was sheltering.
"Clara!" Ricardo shouted through the haze, his vision obstructed.
A burly man in a motorcycle helmet emerged from the smoke, reaching down with gloved hands to drag Clara out by her lace sleeve.
Clara didn't scream. Her mind went ice-cold. She snatched a heavy, solid-brass tailor’s iron from the low table beside her and swung it upward with all the rotational force of her torso.
The heavy brass slammed directly into the side of the attacker’s knee joint.
A sickening crunch echoed through the room. The man collapsed with an agonizing shriek, dropping his weapon. Clara scrambled backward, pulled Madame Cassani’s heavy iron shears from the floor, and drove the blunt handle hard into the man’s throat, pinning him to the floorboards just as Ricardo broke through the smoke.
Ricardo arrived like an avalanche. He stepped on the man’s broken knee, pressing his Beretta firmly against the center of the attacker’s helmet visor.
"Who sent you?" Ricardo growled.
The man wheezed, blood bubbling beneath his helmet. "De Luca... doesn't... lose..."
Sirens began wailing in the distance, echoing off the vertical cliffs of Positano. Marco appeared, holding a captured tactical radio.
"Boss, local carabinieri are three minutes out. We have to clear the zone."
Ricardo looked down at Clara. Her wedding dress was torn at the hem, dusted in white plaster and dotted with tiny specks of glass, but she was entirely uninjured, her eyes clear and blazing with adrenaline.
Ricardo holstered his weapon, knelt down, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her face with frantic, reverent intensity. "You're unbelievable," he whispered, his hands trembling slightly against her spine.
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"The dress is ruined," Clara murmured against his neck, a breathless, hysterical chuckle escaping her lips.
"I’ll buy you ten thousand dresses," Ricardo vowed, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her through the shattered glass toward the waiting vehicle. "Now let's go finish De Luca."
