Page 23 of Vows Made in Silence

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Legacy Under Fire

The first bullet shatters the glass display near the gallery’s front arch.

Luca doesn’t flinch.

He pivots low—controlled, exact—and unleashes three precise shots through the smoke. Screams echo from the street. He doesn’t hear them. Not really. His world narrows to the crack of gunfire and the thud of boots breaching sacred ground.

The Moretti name is carved from blood and legacy—and tonight, Luca wears it like war paint.

Another round tears through the ceiling. Plaster rains down like ash.

Turk’s voice crackles through his earpiece, clipped and sharp. “Six inbound. Two on the roof. One’s carrying an RPG.”

“Copy,” Luca growls. “Light them up.”

He vaults over a shattered sculpture, lands in a crouch, and fires again. One of the masked mercenaries drops in the doorway, faceless beneath a black visor.

The gallery isn’t art anymore. It’s war. Canvas and marble used as cover. History bleeding into bloodshed.

As he reloads behind the framed photograph of the Chicago Bean—ironically the same piece Giuliana dragged him to see on their first date—he exhales slow, jaw clenched.

Turk cuts in, voice even colder now. “They’ve breached the west wing. And they’re not here for you.”

The words hit like shrapnel.

“They’re looking for her.”

Luca’s blood turns to fire.

He doesn’t wait.

He shoulders his weapon and charges—guns first, mercy last.

The west wing is chaos.

Shadows move too fast. The floor is slick with blood and shards of glass. Luca becomes smoke, a silent predator hunting what dared touch his world.

He rounds the corner and finds Santo down, blood blooming from his shoulder. Another Moretti soldier lies unconscious behind an overturned sculpture.

He checks pulses. Alive. Barely.

A bullet whistles past his ear.

He ducks, spins, fires. One shot. One kill. The masked attacker crumples without ceremony.

Luca storms deeper into the wing, every footstep echoing the tempo of war. Overhead, lights flicker like warning sirens. He catches a flash of movement—two men in the distance.

He freezes behind a column and listens.

“Where is she?” one of them barks. East Coast accent. Heavy. Familiar.

“Gone,” another answers. “Bellucci took her out the back.”

“Get eyes on the street. Now.”

Luca doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t move.