Kidnapping the Assassin: The Mafia Don’s Fatal Mistake

The Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter 3

[Cassian]

The blast shook the foundation of the estate, raining a thick coat of concrete dust over us.

In the pitch black, my instincts took over. I shoved Elara behind me, pressing her back against the cold pillar, and drew the customized Beretta 92FS from my shoulder holster in a single, fluid motion.

Silence rushed back into the basement, broken only by the ringing in my ears and the faint, unmistakable sound of boots crunching over debris at the top of the stairs.

Night vision goggles. Suppressed weapons. Professional sweep.

My security detail is dead, I realized. A cold, furious clarity washed over me. The estate was heavily fortified. For a tactical team to breach the main floor without tripping the perimeter alarms, someone on the inside had to have opened the door for them.

"Three of them," a soft voice whispered right by my ear.

I flinched. I had almost forgotten how close she was. Elara was pressed flush against my back, her breathing so perfectly controlled I could barely feel her chest moving against my spine.

"They have heavy footfalls. Mercenaries, not assassins," she murmured, the warmth of her breath ghosting across my neck. "They’re sweeping the stairs. You have the tactical disadvantage down here."

"I know how a breach works, Viper," I ground out, keeping my gun aimed at the top of the stairwell.

"Then you know you're going to die if you stay right here," she stated matter-of-factly.

Two beams of faint green light laser sights cut through the dust clouds, slowly sweeping down the concrete steps. They were taking their time. They knew whoever was down here was trapped.

I felt a tug on the collar of my suit jacket.

"The keys, Rossi," Elara whispered urgently. "My left hand is still chained to the ceiling. Unless you want me to be target practice, let me go."

I hesitated.

Unchaining the most dangerous assassin in the world in the dark, while my estate was under siege? It was suicide. The moment I freed her, she could snap my neck and use me as a human shield.

"You threatened to burn my syndicate down less than a minute ago," I muttered, my eyes tracking the green lasers moving closer.

"That was before someone blew up your house," she replied dryly. "Right now, you're the only person who can call off the hitmen at my sister's hospital. I need you alive. Give me the damn keys."

A shadow moved at the top of the stairs.

I didn't have time to debate. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the small steel key, and blindly reached behind me. My fingers brushed against the soft, cool skin of her wrist. A jolt of static electricity shocked my fingertips, a stark contrast to the cold metal of the cuff.

She snatched the key. I heard a click, and the heavy chain hit the floor.

"Down," she ordered.

I dropped to a crouch just as three suppressed shots coughed from the stairwell. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. The bullets shattered the concrete pillar exactly where my head had been a second ago.

I returned fire. Three deafening shots echoed in the enclosed space, illuminating the basement in rapid flashes of muzzle flare.

In the brief strobe-light of the gunfire, I saw the attackers. Three men in black tactical gear. One dropped, clutching his throat, but the other two raised their assault rifles.

I braced for the impact. It never came.

A shadow launched itself from the darkness beside me.

Elara didn't have a weapon. She didn't even have two working hands. But she moved with a terrifying, liquid grace that made the mercenaries look like they were moving in slow motion.

She used the wall to launch herself upward, dodging a spray of bullets, and landed directly on the shoulders of the lead gunman. Before he could react, she wrapped her legs around his neck the same way she had done to me and twisted violently.

Crack.

The man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

The last mercenary panicked, swinging his rifle toward her. But Elara was already moving. She grabbed the dead man's combat knife from his chest rig, spun on her heel, and drove the blade up into the soft spot beneath the third man's jaw.

He gurgled, dropped his rifle, and fell backward down the stairs.

Then, absolute silence returned.

I slowly stood up, keeping my gun raised, my heart hammering a furious rhythm against my ribs.

"Clear," Elara's voice rang out from the darkness.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the swirling dust, illuminating the bloody carnage on the stairs.

And then it illuminated her.

Elara stood amidst the bodies, covered in concrete dust and blood. Her dark hair was wild, framing a face so pale and beautiful it looked carved from marble. She was breathing heavily, holding her right hand close to her chest. The thumb was still grotesquely dislocated.

She wasn't looking at the dead men. She was looking at the insignia patch on the shoulder of the man she had just stabbed.

"I told you I was framed, Rossi," she said softly, looking up at me. The beam of my flashlight caught the glint of absolute murder in her eyes.

"These aren't my handlers. These are the Corsican Syndicate. Your uncle's men."

My blood ran cold. The Corsicans.

My uncle, Marco, had sworn a blood oath of loyalty to me yesterday at my father’s funeral.

"They didn't come to silence me," Elara said, stepping over a body and walking slowly toward me until the tip of my gun was inches from her chest. She didn't even blink at the weapon. "They came to finish the coup. To kill you."