Chapter 2 - The Drainage Tunnel
The drainage tunnel was narrow, constructed from heavy 19th-century brickwork, and smelled of wet earth and dry leaves. It ran thirty yards beneath the reinforced stone boundary wall of the villa, emptying into a deep, brush-covered ditch alongside the public country road.
I let Sophia crawl through first, keeping my body positioned between her and the tunnel entrance in case one of Matteo’s mercenaries spotted us from the terrace.
When we emerged into the overgrown ditch on the outer side of the estate, my hands were covered in mud, and my tailored wool coat was ruined. But my mind was clearer than it had been in years.
I checked my pocket. My smartphone was gone—I had left it sitting on the marble table in the foyer right beside my briefcase.
A deliberate move, I realized instantly. Elena had insisted I leave my phone on the table while she fetched my passport, ensuring I couldn't call my real driver or check the security feeds.
"Mr. Julian?" Sophia asked, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek as she crouched in the tall yellow grass. "Where is my papa?"
My heart squeezed. Her father, Tomas, was a simple, hardworking man who had tended my estate’s gardens for a decade. If Matteo’s men were sweeping the grounds, Tomas was in immediate, mortal danger.
"Your papa is smart, Sophia," I said, trying to project a confidence I didn't entirely feel. "He knows every hiding spot on that hill. Right now, we need to get to a phone and call the people I trust."
"Who do you trust?" she asked innocently. "The pretty lady in the car was your wife, and she wants to hurt you."
Her simple question hit me like a physical punch.
Who did I trust?
My executive board in Milan was heavily influenced by Matteo. My private security detail at the docks was managed by a contractor Matteo had personally recommended two years ago. The local police chief in our village was a childhood friend of Elena’s family.
The realization was terrifyingly absolute: I was completely isolated. The trap hadn't been set this morning; it had been constructed piece by piece over the last three years.
"We go to the old railway station in San Lorenzo," I decided, taking Sophia’s small hand in mine. "It’s two miles through the olive groves. Nobody will look for us on foot."
As we set off through the twisted, silver-leafed trees, the faint sound of a high-powered engine roared from the direction of my villa. I looked back through the branches.
May you like
A cloud of dust rose above the cypress trees as my black sedan sped out of the gates—driving fast, aggressive, and empty. They knew I had escaped the perimeter.
The hunt had officially begun.
