877 "She Accepted A Six-Year-Old’s Proposal While Hiding From Debt Collectors—Only To Discover Her 'Fiancé' Is The Son Of The Most Feared Mafia Boss, And Her Dead Father’s Secret Ledger Just Triggered A Full-Scale Warzone!"

The shriek of the security alarm didn't just rattle the walls of the Moretti estate; it tore through the midnight air like a wounded animal.

In less than a heartbeat, Michael Moretti transitioned from a man sharing a quiet, tense moment in a hallway to a lethal machine. His left hand shot out, catching my shoulder and pushing me flat against the heavy oak door frame behind me, shielding my body with his broad frame even as his right hand leveled the suppressed pistol toward the stairwell.

“Stay in the room,” Michael ordered, his voice a low, hard hiss that brooked zero argument. “Lock the bolt behind me. Do not open it for anyone unless you hear my voice.”

“Michael, wait—what’s happening?” My heart slammed violently against my ribs as I grabbed his sleeve. “Is it Tony? Is it Regina?”

“Tony doesn't have the stomach or the clearance to trip a perimeter grid like this,” Michael said, his eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor with predatory focus. “Somebody just breached the western gate. Stay down, Aurora.”

Before I could answer, he turned and vanished down the corridor toward the grand staircase, moving with a silent, terrifying speed that defied his size.

Inside the bedroom, Zach stirred, letting out a soft whimper as the red strobe light from the exterior security system flashed rhythmically through the tall glass windows. I rushed over to the bed, smoothing his dark hair down and whispering soothingly until his breathing evened out again. Then I clicked the heavy brass night-latch into place, retreating back to the window seat where I could keep my eyes glued to the dark gardens below.

The Moretti estate grounds were a sprawling maze of manicured hedges, ancient oaks, and stone pathways. Right now, they looked like a war zone.

Floodlights mounted along the perimeter wall snapped on in sequence, casting glaring white cones of illumination across the lawns. Down on the path leading from the western gate, three black-clad figures moved with eerie synchronization, ducking low behind a marble fountain as automatic gunfire suddenly cracked through the night—sharp, muffled chuffs of silenced weapons clashing in the dark.

Someone was inside the compound. And they weren't here to negotiate.

My fingers dug deep into the velvet upholstery of the window seat as I watched one of the intruders scale a trellis, slipping through a second-floor window on the opposite wing of the mansion.

Then, the lights in my hallway flickered twice and died, plunging the upper floor into absolute, suffocating darkness.