Chapter 8 - The Crimson SnowThe attack came on Tuesday morning, under the gray, freezing sky of the North Side.
Dante and Ellie were leaving a private gallery where they had spent an hour pretending to admire modern art for the benefit of a local lifestyle magazine. The photographer had just taken their photo near the entrance—Dante’s hand resting protectively on Ellie’s waist—when the sound of tearing metal shattered the quiet morning.
A heavy black SUV slammed into the front of Dante’s town car, pinning Marcus inside the driver’s seat.
Before Ellie could scream, two men in black ski masks jumped from the back of the SUV, their hands raised, the cold steel of automatic weapons reflecting the dull gray light of the sky.
"Get down!" Dante roared.
He threw his body over Ellie’s, slamming her flat against the concrete of the parking lot as the first volley of bullets tore through the air, shattering the glass of the gallery doors above them.
The sound was deafening, a rapid, rhythmic thudding that felt like it was vibrating inside Ellie's teeth. Dante was already moving, his hand pulling his gun from his holster as he rolled to his side, returning fire with a calm, terrifying precision.
A man in a mask fell to the pavement, his weapon clattering against the slush.
"Marcus!" Dante shouted, his voice carrying over the gunfire.
Marcus’s door flew open, and the massive guard emerged, his own gun firing as he moved to flank the remaining shooter.
But there was a third man.
He emerged from the shadow of the SUV, his weapon aimed directly at Ellie’s exposed shoulder as she tried to crawl toward the cover of the concrete pillar.
"Ellie!" Dante screamed.
He didn't hesitate. He threw his body in front of her, his back taking the force of the three bullets that were intended for her.
The sound of his grunts was soft, almost polite, compared to the roar of the guns. He fell heavily beside her, his dark eyes wide with shock, his blood already staining the dirty snow beneath his head a deep, brilliant crimson.
"No!" Ellie screamed, her voice cracking with a terror she had never known existed.
Marcus fired one last shot, and the third shooter fell, his body sliding into the slush.
Silence returned to the parking lot, broken only by the wailing of distant sirens and the soft, ragged breathing of the man beside her.
Ellie crawled to Dante, her hands instantly covered in the warm, thick blood that was pouring from his shoulder and chest. She pressed her hands flat against his wounds, her tears falling onto his pale face as his eyes struggled to focus on her.
"Stay with me," she sobbed, her voice a raw, desperate prayer. "Stay with me, Dante. Don't leave me."
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Dante’s fingers trembled as he lifted his hand, his bloody thumb brushing her cheekbone one last time.
"You... you are a Russo, Ellie," he whispered, his voice failing, his eyes closing as the darkness took him. "Don't... don't let them see you cry."
