My Father Sold Me To The Mob Because I Was Defective — Then I Became Their Queen

Part 2

The shockwave lifted me off my feet.

I was thrown violently against the heavy mahogany dresser in the twins’ bedroom.

The grand estate was suddenly plunged into chaotic darkness.

It was illuminated only by vicious, hungry orange flames licking the exterior walls.

My ears rang.

My lungs burned from the sudden influx of acrid plaster dust.

I scrambled across the debris-littered floor.

Panic threatened to freeze my blood.

Then I heard the terrified, piercing screams of five-year-old Greg and Tim.

My own pain vanished.

The stinging humiliation of my father’s betrayal didn’t matter.

An innate, primal instinct clawed its way out of my chest.

I dragged myself through the shattered drywall.

I found the twins huddled in the corner.

They trembled uncontrollably under a pile of heavy down comforters.

I threw my arms around them.

I shielded their small bodies with my own as a secondary explosion rocked the grounds outside.

Someone screamed my name from the corridor.

The oldest boy limped through the doorframe, choking on the thick smoke.

A deep cut was pouring blood down his arm.

He was practically dragging his younger sister behind him.

She was terrified, squeezing her plush toy against her chest.

I didn’t even recognize the harsh tone of my own voice when I ordered them to take cover.

The polished society girl was completely gone.

I physically pulled them into a tight corner behind the heavy wardrobe.

Echoes of rapid gunfire bounced off the marble floors below us.

The bodyguards were fighting back against whoever had breached the gates.

The boy muttered something about an enemy mafia family.

I cut him off, telling him survival was the only thing that mattered right now.

I grabbed the edge of my ruined designer shirt and tore a long strip of fabric loose.

I tied it ruthlessly above his wound to stop the bleeding.

Staying put was going to get us killed.

I picked up one twin and grabbed the other by the wrist.

I ordered the teenager to show us the quickest path down to the bunker.

Navigating the burning house felt like walking through hell.

We could barely breathe by the time we hit the main level.

Suddenly, a heavily armed stranger blocked our path near the front doors.

He aimed his rifle right at us.

A gunshot exploded from the library before he could pull the trigger.

The attacker collapsed onto the imported rug.

The syndicate boss stepped over the body.

He looked like a war god, stripped of his expensive jacket and covered in ash.

He held his smoking pistol with a terrifying ease.

He frantically swept the hallway with his gaze until he saw his kids huddled around me.

He crossed the enormous foyer in a heartbeat.

He dropped to his knees.

He pulled all of us into a desperate, crushing embrace.

He murmured into my hair that I had kept them safe.

I told him to get us to the bunker.

Once the heavy titanium door sealed shut behind us, the terrifying sounds of the war above were muted.

I went straight to the medical supply cabinet.

I began treating Tyler’s arm.

Tyler looked up at his father, then down at me.

The hostility was gone, replaced by a profound, silent respect.

He told Dan that I didn’t run when the glass broke.

I came for them.

I paused, brushing a lock of hair out of Greg’s eyes.

I looked up, my gaze meeting Dan’s across the room.

Why did he look at me not as a defective prisoner, but as the one thing his empire had been missing all along?