"WHAT'S HAPPENING?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
"They're coming for us," Marco says grimly. "The O'Reillys, possibly with Gerald leading them. They're bringing the fight to our doorstep."
The calm that descends over me is surprising, almost unnatural—a crystalline clarity born of extreme danger. "I'll get Lily and Karen," I say, my voice steady despite the terror pounding through my veins. "What about Buddy?"
The trivial concern for my dog amid a looming armed assault should be absurd, but Marco doesn't dismiss it. "Bring him too," he says. "Tony, escort them to the panic room."
Tony nods, already checking his weapon. "This way, Sasha."
I start to follow, then turn back, suddenly seized by the terrible certainty that this might be the last time I see Marco alive. The O'Reillys wouldn't mount an assault on the Walsh estate without overwhelming force. The odds against him are staggering.
"Marco," I begin, but words fail me. What can I possibly say in this moment that would encompass everything I feel, everything I fear we might lose?
He seems to understand without explanation, crossing to me in two swift strides and pulling me into a fierce embrace. "When this is over, I'll come for you. Just keep Lily safe until then."
I cling to him, memorizing the feel of his arms around me, the scent of him, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. Then I make myself let go, step back, reclaim the strength I'll need to protect my sister.
"Don't you dare die on me, Marco Walsh," I say firmly, willing it to be a command the universe must obey.
The ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Yes, ma'am."
Then he's gone, striding down the hallway toward the command center where he'll direct the estate's defense. Tony nudges me gently in the opposite direction, toward Lily's room.
"He'll be alright," Tony says. "I've seen him get out of worse situations."
I nod, hoping desperately that he's right, and focus on what I can control—getting my family to safety.
Lily is surprisingly calm when I wake her, as if midnight evacuations amid security threats are perfectly normal occurrences in her nine-year-old life. She takes my urgently whispered instructions in stride, gathering her stuffed rabbit and following me without question. Buddy trots alongside her, seemingly attuned to the tension.
Karen is another matter entirely. She meets us at her bedroom door, already dressed, her face pale with fear and anger. "What's happening now?" she demands. "More of Marco's gangster business?"
"The estate is under attack," I say bluntly, having neither time nor patience for gentler explanations. "We need to get to the panic room. Now."
Her eyes widen, darting to Lily, who stands quiet but alert at my side. Whatever protest she was preparing dies on her lips at the sight of her niece's vulnerability. "Lead the way," she says instead, her voice tight but controlled.
Tony guides us through the maze of corridors, moving swiftly but cautiously. Through windows, I catch glimpses of men taking positions across the estate grounds, weapons ready, faces grim. In the distance, headlights approach—multiple vehicles moving with purposeful coordination.
"How many?" I ask Tony, nodding toward the approaching threat.
"Too many," he answers grimly. "At least thirty men, based on initial counts. They're well-equipped, too."
The assessment sends ice through my veins.
The panic room is located in the heart of the estate, a reinforced bunker disguised behind an ordinary-looking door in the library. Tony leads us inside, activating a series of locks that would give a bank vault envy.
"This room is completely secure," he explains, gesturing to the spartan but functional space. "Bullet-proof, blast-resistant, with independent air supply and communications. There's food, water, medical supplies—everything you need to last for several days if necessary."
Lily explores the space with wide-eyed curiosity, seemingly more intrigued than frightened by our circumstances. Karen sinks onto one of the cots provided; her expression is one of numb disbelief. Buddy circles the perimeter, sniffing every corner before settling protectively at Lily's feet.
"How will we know what's happening outside?" I ask, already dreading the ignorance that awaits us in this sealed chamber.
Tony indicates a bank of monitors along one wall. "Security feeds from throughout the estate. You'll be able to see most of what's happening. There's also a direct communication line to the command center where Marco will be coordinating our defense."
The monitors flicker to life, displaying multiple angles of the estate—entrances, hallways, the perimeter fence. On several screens, I can see Walsh security personnel taking defensive positions, their movements swift and practiced.
And on one monitor, the approaching threat comes into clear view—a convoy of black SUVs and tactical vehicles approaching the main gate with ominous purpose.
"They'll be here in minutes," Tony says, checking his weapon one final time. "I need to join the defense team."
Part of me wants to go with him, to stand beside Marco rather than hiding in this reinforced cage. But Lily's presence anchors me to reality, to responsibility. My sister needs me here, not playing at being a soldier in a war I barely understand.
"Keep safe," I tell Tony instead, clasping his arm briefly.
He nods, and then he's gone, the heavy door sealing behind him with a series of electronic beeps and mechanical thuds. We're locked in, protected, and imprisoned simultaneously.
I turn to the monitors, watching as the first vehicles reach the gate. For a moment, there's an odd stillness—the calm before the inevitable storm. Then the night erupts in gunfire and shouted commands, the peaceful estate transforming instantly into a battlefield.
"Is this really happening?" Karen asks, her voice faint with disbelief. "Are we actually in the middle of a gang war?"
"Yes," I answer simply, eyes fixed on the screens where men—Marco's men—are fighting and dying to protect us. "We are."
Lily comes to stand beside me, slipping her small hand into mine. "Is Marco going to be okay?" she asks, her question striking directly at my deepest fear.
I squeeze her hand, forcing confidence I don't entirely feel into my voice. "Marco is very good at his job, Lily. And his job right now is making sure we're all safe."
She nods, accepting this assessment with the simple faith of childhood. "I like him," she confides, as if sharing an important secret. "He doesn't talk to me like I'm stupid, and he makes you smile."
The observation catches me off guard, bringing a lump to my throat. "Yes," I manage. "He does make me smile."
Karen watches this exchange with visible concern but holds her peace, understanding that now isn't the time for lectures about my choice in men.
I take Lily by the hand away from the monitors and onto a cot. “Can you do me a favor?” I ask.
“Take care of Buddy; he’s a bit afraid.”
Lily sinks her hand into Buddy’s fur and nods.
I get back to the monitors. I search desperately for Marco himself among the figures moving across the screens, but I can't locate him.
The direct line to the command center crackles to life suddenly: "Sasha, can you hear me?" Marco's voice, tense but controlled.
I rush to the communication panel, pressing the response button. "I'm here. We're all safe."
"Good. The situation is developing rapidly. The O'Reillys have breached the perimeter, but we're holding them at the inner courtyard. Damien's reinforcements are en route but won't arrive for at least fifteen minutes."
"Where are you?" I ask, needing to know he's still safe, still alive.
"Command center, coordinating our response," he answers. "Don't worry about me. Just—"
His transmission cuts off abruptly, replaced by static. At the same moment, several of the security monitors go dark, including the ones showing the command center.
"Marco?" I call, pressing the communication button repeatedly. "Marco, can you hear me?"
Nothing but static answers. A cold dread settles in my stomach as I turn back to the remaining monitors. The few still functioning show increasingly desperate fighting, Marco's men being pushed back toward the main house.
"What's happening?" Lily asks, her earlier calm giving way to fear as she senses my growing panic.
"I'm not sure," I admit, unwilling to lie even as I try to keep my voice steady. "Just stay with Buddy."
Karen joins us at the monitors. “Can they break in here?" she asks quietly, nodding toward the sealed door.
"No," I say with more confidence than I feel. "Tony said this room is completely secure. We're safe."
But safe for how long? And what about Marco? If the O'Reillys have taken out the command center, if the security system is failing... I force the thought away, refusing to contemplate the worst.
Minutes stretch into an eternity of uncertainty. Occasionally, we catch glimpses of the ongoing battle on the few functioning monitors, but the overall situation remains frustratingly unclear.
Lily eventually falls asleep on one of the cots, emotional exhaustion claiming her despite the chaos. Buddy curls protectively beside her, maintaining his vigil even in this supposed safe haven. Karen sits nearby, her hand resting gently on Lily's shoulder, her expression a mixture of fear, anger, and resignation.
I remain at the monitors, scanning the fragmentary feeds for any sign of Marco, any indication of how the battle is progressing. My mind races with questions and fears I can't voice aloud, not with Lily potentially overhearing.
What if Marco is already dead? What if the O'Reillys breach the panic room? What if this reinforced box becomes not our salvation but our tomb?
"You really love him, don't you?" Karen's quiet question breaks the heavy silence.
I turn to her, surprised by both the question and the lack of judgment in her tone. "Yes," I admit simply. "I do."
She nods, as if confirming something she's long suspected. "I don't understand it," she says. "How you can love someone whose life revolves around violence and crime. But I can see that you do."
"It's not that simple," I try to explain, though I know how hollow the justification must sound. "Marco is...complicated. There's more to him than what he does."
"There always is," Karen says with surprising gentleness. "No one is just one thing, Sasha. But in the end, we are what we do. And what he does has brought this—" she gestures to our surroundings, to the battle raging beyond our walls, "—into your life. Into Lily's life."
The truth of her observation stings, but I can't deny it. "I know," I acknowledge. "And if I could keep Lily out of this, I would. But it's too late for that now. They targeted her specifically, Karen. Used her to get to me, to get to Marco. There's no going back to before."
"There's always a way out," she argues, though with less conviction than before. "A fresh start somewhere new, far from all this."
I shake my head, the naivety of her suggestion almost painful. "The O'Reillys found us at your house with barely any effort. Do you really think they couldn't find us again, wherever we went? At least with Marco, we have protection."
Karen falls silent, unable to counter this grim reality. After a moment, she asks, "So what happens if he survives this? You stay here, become what? A mob wife?"
The term makes me flinch, its crude simplicity failing to capture the complexity of what exists between Marco and me. "I don't know," I admit. "We haven't had time to figure it out. But I know I want a future with him, whatever that looks like."
"And your catering business? Your dreams?"
"Still there," I insist. "Marco supports them. He's not trying to change me or control me, Karen. He's just trying to keep me safe while we figure out how to make this work."
She looks skeptical but doesn't press further. Instead, she asks the question that's been haunting me since the communication line went dead: "Do you think he's still alive out there?"
I swallow hard, forcing down the fear that threatens to overwhelm me. "Yes," I say with all the conviction I can muster. "Marco is a survivor. He'll find a way through this."
But as another explosion rocks the estate, rattling even the reinforced walls of our sanctuary, doubt creeps in despite my best efforts to keep it at bay.
I turn back to the monitoring station, desperately searching the few remaining functional cameras for any sign of him. Instead, I see only chaos—flames engulfing part of the east wing, figures moving through smoke and shadows, the once-pristine grounds now littered with evidence of violent conflict.
Home. This has become home to me, strange as that seems. And now it's being torn apart, along with any hope for the future I've barely allowed myself to envision.
A sudden noise at the door snaps me to alertness—the sound of the electronic lock being disengaged. Someone is entering the code. Someone is coming in.
I move instinctively to stand between the door and Lily, my body tensing for fight or flight despite having nowhere to run. Karen rises too, her maternal instinct to protect overriding her fear.
The heavy door swings open slowly, revealing a silhouette backlit by the hallway lights. For one terrible moment, I brace for the worst—an O'Reilly gunman, Gerald himself, death personified.
Then recognition hits, relief so powerful it nearly buckles my knees.
"Marco," I breathe, his name a prayer and thanksgiving combined.
He steps into the room, bloodied and battered but gloriously, miraculously alive. His clothes are torn, a fresh cut slices across his cheekbone, and he's favoring his left leg slightly. But his eyes—his eyes are clear and focused, finding mine immediately.
"It's over," he says simply. "We held them off long enough for Damien's reinforcements to arrive. The O'Reillys are retreating."
I cross the space between us in three swift strides, throwing myself into his arms with such force that he staggers slightly. He catches me, arms wrapping around me tightly, his face buried in my hair.
"You're alive," I murmur against his neck, inhaling his scent beneath the smoke and blood. "You came back."
"I promised I would," he reminds me, his voice rough with emotion rarely displayed so openly.
Lily wakes at the commotion, her sleepy confusion giving way to delight when she recognizes our visitor. "Marco!" she exclaims, scrambling off the cot and rushing to join our embrace. Buddy follows, tail wagging furiously at this reunion.
Marco releases me with one arm to include Lily in our circle, his other arm remaining firmly around my waist. "Hello, little one," he says, his tone gentler than I've ever heard it. "You've been very brave tonight."
She beams at the praise, apparently unfazed by his battered appearance or the circumstances of our shelter. "Sasha said you'd keep us safe," she tells him with simple confidence. "And you did."
Something flickers across Marco's face at her words—surprise, perhaps, or a deeper emotion I can't quite name. He glances at me, a question in his eyes.
"She's right," I confirm softly. "I never doubted you'd come for us."
The lie is small and forgivable, offered in the spirit of the moment. We both know fear crept in during those long, silent hours. But what matters is this—he's here now, alive and victorious against overwhelming odds.
Karen approaches cautiously, her expression guarded but civil. "Is it really over?" she asks. "Are we safe now?"
Marco straightens, shifting seamlessly back into his role as protector and commander. "The immediate threat has been neutralized," he confirms. "The estate took significant damage, but the structure remains secure. We'll need to relocate to the west wing while repairs are made to the east side."
"And the O'Reillys?" I ask, the practical question breaking through my relief. "Will they try again?"
A shadow crosses his face. "Their losses were substantial. They won't mount another direct assault anytime soon. But this isn't over completely—not yet."
The qualification hangs in the air, a reminder that our safety remains provisional, dependent on Marco's continued vigilance and strength. But for now, for this moment, we're alive and together. It's enough.
"What happens now?" Karen asks, voicing the question we're all thinking.
Marco's gaze meets mine, something significant passing between us—a decision, a commitment, a shared understanding of what must come next.
"Now," he says, his voice steady with certainty, "we rebuild. And we prepare. Because the O'Reillys will be back, and next time, we'll be the ones setting the terms of engagement."
The declaration should frighten me—this promise of continued conflict, of violence that will inevitably touch our lives again. Instead, I feel an odd sense of clarity, of purpose. This is our reality now, for better or worse. Not the life I imagined, certainly, but one I'm increasingly willing to fight for.
Because Marco is right—this isn't over. The battle for our future has only just begun.