Chapter 6 – HE CANNOT HEAR THE GUN

I froze at the top of the stairs, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Michael hadn’t seen me yet. He was pulling Noah toward the balcony overlooking the foyer. It was a three-story drop to the marble floor below.

“Come on, you little defect,” Michael muttered, hauling the struggling boy forward. “Such a tragic accident. The poor, confused deaf boy fell in his panic over the fire.”

Noah was fighting frantically, twisting his body and kicking, but he was too small. Because he couldn’t hear the malicious words his uncle was saying, his dark eyes were wide with pure, confused terror.

I had no weapon. I had no backup.

But I had something Michael didn’t know about.

I stepped out from behind the marble pillar into Noah’s line of sight.

Noah saw me instantly. He stopped struggling for a split second, his chest heaving.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t make a sound.

I locked eyes with the terrified eight-year-old and raised my hands.

Drop, I signed in a sharp, violent motion. Go limp.

Noah was smart. He didn’t look at my face; he kept his eyes lowered, acting terrified. But the moment Michael shifted his grip to open the heavy balcony doors, Noah went entirely limp.

Eighty pounds of dead weight suddenly dropped toward the floor.

Michael grunted, losing his grip on the boy’s collar. “Get up, you little freak—”

“Hey!” I screamed, stepping fully into the hallway.

Michael whipped around, raising the gun toward me. Shock registered on his face. “You’re supposed to be ash.”

“And you’re supposed to be a man,” I spat, my voice echoing in the empty hall. “But you’re just a coward holding a gun to a child.”

Michael laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Brave words for a dead housekeeper. Did you really think Luca loved you? You were a pawn, Ella. A distraction.”

He aimed the gun directly at my chest.

“Say goodbye,” Michael whispered.

BANG.

The gunshot was deafening. It rattled the crystal chandeliers in the hallway.

But the bullet didn’t hit me.

Michael screamed, dropping his gun as his right shoulder exploded in a mist of red. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding arm.

Standing at the end of the hallway, covered in soot, ash, and blood, was Luca.

He was breathing heavily, a massive Smith & Wesson revolver smoking in his hand. He looked like a demon walking out of hell.

“You missed my heart, Michael,” Luca growled, stepping over the threshold.

Michael scrambled backward on the floor, leaving a trail of blood. “Luca! Luca, wait! The council is here! They’re pulling up to the gates right now! If you kill me, they’ll end you!”

Luca ignored him. He walked straight past his bleeding brother and dropped to his knees in front of Noah.

He pulled the trembling boy into his chest, burying his face in his son’s hair. I have you, Luca signed against the boy’s back. Daddy has you.

Then, Luca turned his dark, lethal eyes back to Michael.

“The council knows the penalty for touching a boss’s family,” Luca said, raising the gun again.

“She isn’t family!” Michael screamed desperately, pointing his bloody finger at me. “She’s a nobody! A maid! Ask her where she got that rosary around her neck! Ask her who she really is, Luca!”

Luca stopped.

He looked at me. Specifically, at the wooden rosary hanging exposed over my torn apron.

It had belonged to my mother. I wore it every day.

“Take it off, Ella,” Michael gasped, coughing up blood. “Show him the crest on the back of the cross. Tell him your father’s real name.”

My hands shook as I reached for the wooden cross. I turned it over.

Carved into the back of the cheap wood was a small, intricate crest. A hawk gripping a snake.

I had never known what it meant.

But Luca did.

The gun in Luca’s hand wavered. He stared at the crest, then looked up at my face, a look of profound betrayal washing over him.

“Your name is Brooks,” Luca whispered.

“Yes,” I cried. “Ella Brooks.”

“Your father,” Luca said, his voice breaking. “Was his name Arthur Brooks?”

I nodded, tears streaming down my face. “He died when I was a baby.”

Luca slowly lowered the gun.

“Arthur Brooks didn’t die when you were a baby,” Luca said, his voice hollow. “Arthur Brooks was the federal informant who wore a wire into my father’s house. He is the reason my father went to federal prison. He is the reason my mother was murdered on the street.”

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