Brida’s desperate cry cut through the room, cutting through air thick with burned cordite. Ice settled behind Senna's ribs. Tomas. Always Tomas. She shoved her chair back, the ornate wood scraping loudly against the polished marble floor. Her gaze locked onto Brida, whose bloodshot stare fixed on her with raw panic. "Brida, what happened? Are you hurt?" Before Senna could take a step, a heavy hand clamped onto her arm. Levon Karras. His grip was firm, unyielding, a silent command to stay put. He hadn’t moved from his seat, yet his presence suddenly filled the entire room, eclipsing the stunned silence. His gaze, no longer tender, hardened into something predatory as he looked past Senna, toward the bleeding woman at the doorway. “Seal the estate,” Levon commanded, his voice a low rumble that cut through the air. “Now.” Uniformed guards broke into motion, half pivoting toward the long banquet room perimeter while the rest sprinted for the threshold where Brida swayed. Just as two men reached her, a deafening crack ripped through the night outside, followed by the crystalline cascade of breaking glass. The sound was distinct, closer than any thunder, too sharp to be accidental. The massive glass partition of the adjacent greenhouse gallery, framed against the moonlit gardens, blew inward. A spiderweb of cracks erupted across the panel, then the entire structure imploded with a shriek of tortured glass and twisted metal. Splinters rained down across the floorboards. Automatic fire raked the breach, ripping velvet drapes and chewing through stone moldings, dumping pulverized plaster into the air. A stray sliver sliced Senna’s cheek, drawing hot blood. This was no skirmish on an empty dock—Goran Ozer’s crews had brought the fight directly over the threshold of Belzanto’s most guarded manor. Karras men returned fire, muzzle flares strobing against the ruined terrace. The air filled with the acrid stench of cordite, mingling with the rich aroma of the uneaten dinner. Brida shrieked, collapsing into the arms of the two guards who had reached her, her strength finally giving out. Levon Karras was no longer seated. He moved with a speed that belied his casual demeanor, a blur of dark tailored fabric. He didn't run, he flowed, crossing the distance to Senna in two long strides. In one fluid motion, he spun her, pressing her back against his chest, his large body a solid, unyielding shield. The cold slide of a heavy handgun, far larger than the pocket piece he’d turned on the lieutenant, pressed into her ribs as his arm locked around her waist. His voice, a low growl against her ear, was impossibly calm amidst the storm of bullets. “Stay low. Don’t move.” He forced her down behind the massive mahogany table, the thick timber groaning under incoming lead. Senna could feel the tremor of the floor, the thud of heavy boots, and the spray of broken pottery as bullets shredded the dinner service. Through the gaps between the table legs, she saw shapes moving in the garden, dark figures silhouetted against the stark floodlights that now flickered on, cutting through the darkness like frantic beacons. Levon rose just enough to sight along the wood, his firearm barking in disciplined, rhythmic pairs. A dark figure in the garden stumbled, then dropped. Another. He wasn't just defending; he was obliterating. The cold efficiency, the utter lack of hesitation, was terrifying. He was a force of nature, a controlled storm, annihilating everything that dared to threaten his space. A stray slug whistled inches over Senna’s skull, biting deep into carved wainscoting with a dry crunch. Levon shifted, his body tightening around her, absorbing the impact, his own shots echoing louder. A Karras guard, positioned near the entrance, fell with a gurgle, clutching his chest. The attackers had breached the terrace, pushing over the ruined glass boundary. Levon pushed Senna further down, his hand firm on the back of her head, urging her closer to the relative safety of the floor. He moved with a primal grace, rising and firing, then dropping back down, a dance of death. He was a predator in his own den, enraged. He didn't just fire; he hunted. He aimed for vital points, his movements economical, brutal. His gaze remained completely flat, stripped of anything human. Then, he was up again, abandoning the table, pulling Senna with him. She stumbled, caught off balance by his sudden movement, but his grip was iron. He dragged her toward the service corridor, away from the wreckage, driving deeper into the stone heart of the house. But before they reached the doorway, a figure burst through the remaining glass frames, a stocky man in dark tactical gear, wielding a submachine gun. Levon shoveled Senna behind a towering oak cabinet, pivoted, and squeezed off two rounds. The assassin barely registered the impact before he crumpled, a dark stain spreading on his chest. But another, faster, emerged from behind him, sprinting, aiming for Levon. This one wore a balaclava, a glint of desperate fury in his exposed eyes. Levon met him head-on. Tossing the spent sidearm, he ducked inside the gunman's firing arc, closing the distance instantly. A bone-jarring crack echoed as Levon’s elbow found the man’s jaw, followed by a sickening crunch as his knee connected with the assassin's sternum. The attacker gasped, dropping his weapon, before Levon’s hand closed around his throat. He lifted the man clear off his feet, holding him suspended, a puppet of flesh and bone. His voice, when it came, was a low snarl that vibrated through the floorboards. “Who sent you, filth?” The assassin, gasping for air, clawed at Levon’s arm. His eyes, though wide with terror, held a stubborn defiance. A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth, and he managed a choked, bloody laugh. “Ozer… he’ll never stop. Not for… not for a few drugs. That shipment… it has his boy’s cure.”

Breach of Sanctuary