Chapter 7 - The Trap in the West Wing
Luciano’s breath hitched. He tried to lunge for the notebook, but years of surviving the harshest neighborhoods of Milan had taught me how to move fast when cornered. I slammed the heavy leather briefcase lid shut, catching his fingers against the metal rim.
He let out a sharp cry of pain.
“Don't even think about it,” I whispered, my voice cold and steady. I pressed the encrypted communication device in my pocket twice—the emergency signal for Mateo.
Before Luciano could pull his hand free or draw the small pearl-handled revolver tucked inside his waistcoat, the heavy doors banged open. Mateo and two armed guards flooded the room in less than three seconds. The giant security chief grabbed Luciano by the collar of his tailored suit, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing at all.
“Trouble?” Mateo grunted.
“Found our second ghost,” I said, lifting the false bottom of the briefcase and holding up the black notebook. “He was transferring Marco’s ledger network to a new buyer within the Rossi syndicate.”
Luciano thrashed in Mateo’s grip, his face turning purple. “You don't understand! They have my family! They were going to kill my daughter if I didn't give them the transport schedules!”
“Save your excuses for the tribunal,” Mateo said flatly, striking Luciano swiftly across the jaw with the butt of his palm. The accountant slumped into unconsciousness instantly. “Take him down to the sub-level garage. Put him in the cell next to Marco’s.”
As the guards dragged the limp body out of the room, the silence returned to the dining hall. My heart was pounding against my ribs, but my hands were steady. I looked down at the black notebook in my palm. The network was deeper than we thought. Marco Vance hadn't acted alone; he had been the financial front, while Luciano was the digital conduit.
And if the Rossi syndicate was still receiving internal updates, it meant there was someone else—someone higher up in the hierarchy—who hadn't been unmasked yet.
Later that afternoon, after depositing the encrypted ledger into Alessandro’s private wall safe, I walked up to the east wing to check on Emma.
She was sitting on a plush velvet rug in the sunlit playroom, surrounded by wooden blocks, happily drinking apple juice while Maria, the nanny, knitted a sweater. Her blue rabbit sat propped up against a stuffed teddy bear on the sofa.
“Mommy!” Emma cheered, dropping her blocks and running over to wrap her small arms around my knees. “Can we stay in this big house forever? There’s a secret garden outside, and the chef made me tiny pancakes with strawberries!”
I knelt down, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, a lump suddenly forming in my throat. “We’re safe here, sweetheart. But we have to be very careful.”
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“I’m always careful with Mr. Bunny,” she whispered seriously, holding up the toy.
I smiled, kissing her cheek. But deep down, a cold dread began to form. Villa Moretti was a fortress, but a fortress was only as strong as the people guarding its gates. And someone inside was still opening the back door for the enemy.
