Chapter 5 - The Velvet Trap
Night fell over Manhattan like a shroud of black velvet.
Inside the Moretti mansion, the heavy oak doors were bolted, the perimeter alarms were humming with lethal current, and the shadows in the hallways seemed to stretch longer and sharper. Rico had left two hours ago with a convoy of black SUVs heading toward the Red Hook docks to settle accounts with the Russian syndicate.
Clara should have felt safe. The estate was guarded by an army of armed men. Leo was fast asleep in his nursery, breathing evenly and deeply for the first night without a single tear.
Yet, an inexplicable unease hung in the air.
Clara sat in the massive, mahogany-paneled library on the second floor, staring at an open book she wasn't reading. Her mind was racing. Rico was out there walking into a trap, or walking into a bloodbath, and despite knowing who and what he was, her chest tightened with a knot of pure dread.
He’s a monster, she reminded herself fiercely. He runs drugs, extortion, and violence. He’s not your problem.
A soft click echoed down the hallway.
Clara froze.
It wasn't the heavy, boot-clad stride of one of Rico’s guards. It was light, cautious, almost hesitant—a sound designed to go unnoticed by anyone not listening with absolute terror.
Slowly, Clara set her book down on the leather armchair. She stood up, her breath catching in her throat.
The library door, which had been left ajar, slowly pushed open another few inches.
A sliver of light from the hallway illuminated a figure standing outside. It wasn't Marcus. It wasn't any of the regular security detail whose faces Clara had memorized over the last few days.
It was a man wearing a dark janitorial uniform, his face half-shadowed by a baseball cap pulled low. But what made Clara’s blood run cold was the heavy, suppressed pistol gripped firmly in his right hand.
An infiltrator.
The Russian syndicate hadn't just attacked the docks; they had breached the mansion.
Clara’s mind raced with frantic, desperate energy. If she screamed, the intruder would open fire, and Leo’s nursery was only three doors down. She had to lead them away.
Without thinking, she grabbed a heavy bronze paperweight off the mahogany desk and hurled it across the room.
Clang!
The paperweight smashed into a glass display case near the far window.
The intruder whipped around, stepping fully into the library, his gun leveling toward the sound. “Who’s there?!” he hissed in a harsh whisper.
Clara didn't hesitate. She slipped silently out the library door into the darkened hallway, her bare feet making no sound against the runner. She bolted toward the opposite wing—away from Leo’s room, away from the stairs, deeper into the labyrinth of guest suites.
Footsteps slammed against the hardwood floor behind her.
“I know someone’s here!” the intruder snarled, his heavy boots chasing her down the corridor.
Clara ducked into an empty, unlit guest bedroom, pressing her back hard against the inside of the door, her hands clamped over her mouth to muffle the sound of her ragged breathing.
The footsteps slowed outside the door.
A shadow fell across the frosted glass panel of the door. The handle jiggled.
Clara closed her eyes, praying to a God she hadn't spoken to in years. Please. Not Leo. Just keep him away from Leo.
Suddenly, a loud, chaotic commotion erupted from the front foyer downstairs—shouts, heavy thuds, and the unmistakable, terrifying crack of a gunshot echoing through the hollow architecture of the mansion.
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The footsteps outside Clara’s door instantly vanished, sprinting back toward the main stairwell.
Clara slid down the door, her knees hitting the floor as her legs gave out entirely.
