Chapter 5 - The Trap Springs Shut
Thud.
The sound of a hydraulic breaching ram slamming against the outer oak door of the master suite vibrated through the floorboards, shaking the crystal chandelier overhead.
Thud. Thud.
The reinforced deadbolts groaned under the assault. The heavy timber frame splintered slightly, showering fine white sawdust onto the Persian rug.
I dropped to my knees beside the bed, pulling the dust ruffle back. Ellie and Isabella were huddled together in the dark space beneath the mattress, wide-eyed and silent.
“Listen to me,” I whispered fiercely, grabbing both of their small hands. “You are going to stay right here. Do not make a sound, no matter what you hear. If anyone lifts this mattress, you run for the master bathroom and lock the sliding pocket door. Understand?”
“Mommy, don't leave us,” Ellie whimpered, a tear cutting a clean path down her dusty cheek.
“I'm right here,” I lied, giving her hand a fierce squeeze before dropping the ruffle back into place.
I scrambled to my feet, my eyes scanning the room for anything I could use as a weapon. There was a heavy brass fireplace poker resting beside the unlit hearth. I sprinted across the room, grabbed it with both hands, and positioned myself squarely beside the entryway just as the bedroom door finally gave way with a deafening screech of splintered oak and snapping iron.
The heavy door crashed inward, hitting the wall with a violent rebound.
Through the cloud of drywall dust and flying splinters stepped two figures in black tactical gear, their suppressed carbines raised and pointed directly at the center of the room.
Behind them, leaning gracefully on an ebony walking cane with a silver wolf's head handle, stepped Julian Moretti.
He looked nothing like a dead man. His white hair was meticulously combed, his charcoal suit unwrinkled by the storm outside, and his cold, gray eyes surveyed the opulent bedroom with the absolute detachment of a museum curator inspecting old furniture.
“Well, well,” Julian murmured, his voice smooth and raspy, carrying easily over the sound of the rain lashing against the windows. He tapped the tip of his cane against the splintered floorboards. “Domestic staff trying to play hero. How charmingly tragic.”
I tightened my grip on the heavy brass poker, my knuckles burning white. “Stay back.”
Julian chuckled softly, stepping further into the room while his two tactical operatives fanned out, their weapon barrels tracking my every movement.
“Put the metal down, child,” Julian sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “You're holding a fireplace poker against men who have cleared rooms in Kandahar. You're embarrassing yourself.”
“Where is Vincent?” I demanded, keeping my stance wide and balanced, waiting for a single split-second opening.
“My nephew is currently discovering just how thoroughly his father’s estate was dismantled,” Julian smiled, a cruel, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. “He thought he was the master of the house. He thought he could protect his little family by locking doors and playing detective. But the Moretti empire was built on blood and betrayal long before Vincent was ever born—and it belongs to me.”
Julian motioned with his cane toward the bed where Ellie and Isabella were hiding.
“Now, be a sensible housekeeper,” Julian commanded, his voice dropping all pretense of warmth. “Lift the dust ruffle. Hand me the girl and the cassette tape, and I’ll let you and your own daughter walk out of here alive. Refuse, and these men won't bother using a breaching ram on the bathroom door.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My muscles locked, every instinct screaming at me that the moment I moved toward that bed, we were all dead.
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Julian’s eyes narrowed. He nodded slightly to the operative on the left.
The man in tactical gear took a slow, deliberate step forward, raising his carbine barrel directly toward my chest.
