Chapter 7 - The Final Confrontation
Back in Lake Forest, the storm had knocked out the main power grid, plunging the grand mansion into an eerie, shadowy silence broken only by the emergency generators humming in the sub-basement.
Celeste Caruso paced the length of the master suite, her phone pressed tightly to her ear.
“What do you mean, they’re not answering?” she hissed into the receiver, her voice rising in panic. “My father’s men were supposed to secure the Michigan facility hours ago!”
“Miss Caruso,” a strained voice crackled over the line. “The Moretti detail... they hit the compound twenty minutes ago. Your father’s security team has been neutralized. Ethan has the boy.”
Celeste dropped the phone. It clattered against the parquet floor, the battery cover popping off.
She stared at her reflection in the gilded dressing table mirror. Her mascara was slightly smudged; her immaculate hair was beginning to fray. Everything she had schemed for—the Moretti empire, the harbor monopoly, the society weddings splashed across the front pages of the Chicago Tribune—was gone.
And it was all because of a maid.
With a low, feral growl, Celeste pulled open the bottom drawer of her vanity.
Inside rested a small, pearl-handled .38 caliber revolver her father had given her for personal protection when she moved into the estate.
She picked it up, slipping it into the pocket of her cashmere coat. If she was going down, she wasn't going alone.
She opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the dark, candle-lit hallway of the north wing.
She didn't make it three steps before a heavy hand clamped down firmly on her shoulder.
Celeste spun around, raising her hand to strike, but froze.
Standing in the shadows was Mr. Bennett. The old estate manager looked at her not with anger, but with a profound, chilling disappointment.
“Where do you think you’re going, Miss Caruso?” Bennett asked quietly.
“Get your hands off me, you old fool!” Celeste shrieked, trying to reach into her pocket for the gun.
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Bennett was faster. With the practiced efficiency of a man who had served three generations of Moretti bosses, he twisted her wrist behind her back with a sharp click, relieving her of the revolver and sending it skittering across the polished floorboards.
“The police are already at the front gates, Miss Caruso,” Bennett said, pushing her down against the wall. “And Mr. Ethan is currently on his way back with your fiancé’s true heir. Your little game is over.”
