Chapter 7 - A Traitor's Desperation
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Dante dragged Vanessa kicking and screaming down the grand spiral staircase, her desperate cries echoing through the marble halls.
The remaining guests had already been escorted off the property by Luca's private security team.
The mansion was now on complete military lockdown, with iron security shutters descending over every ground-floor window.
Luca walked over to his desk, picked up the silver revolver Vanessa had dropped, and slid it into his inner breast pocket.
"Gianna," Luca said, turning to look at me with eyes that were calm despite the impending war.
"You need to take off that apron."
I looked down at the stained, cheap polyester uniform that had defined my life for so many years.
With trembling fingers, I untied the strings around my waist and let the black apron fall onto the floor beside the broken glass.
"That belongs to the past," Luca said, pulling a soft cashmere blanket from the closet and wrapping it around my shoulders.
He then walked over to Eleanor, who was resting her head against the back of the sofa, looking utterly exhausted.
"Eleanor, your great-grandson Leo," Luca said, kneeling beside her once again.
"What hospital is he in right now?"
"Northwestern Memorial, in the pediatric wing," Eleanor whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air vents.
"Vanessa's father has two private guards stationed outside his room on the fourth floor."
"She told me they were there to ensure the boy didn't receive any unexpected visitors."
Luca's eyes flashed with murderous intent.
"They aren't guards, Eleanor," Luca said grimly.
"They are executioners waiting for the signal to pull the plug if things went wrong tonight."
I felt a wave of icy horror wash over me as I grabbed Eleanor's bandaged hand.
"We have to save that little boy, Luca," I insisted, my voice ringing with a fierce authority I didn't know I possessed.
"He is seven years old, and he is innocent."
Luca looked at me, a faint smirk of pride touching the corner of his lips.
"You have our mother's courage, Gianna," he said softly.
He pulled a sleek satellite phone from his pocket and dialed a direct number.
"Marco's crew, listen to me," Luca barked into the receiver the moment the call connected.
"Take ten men in two unmarked black Suburbans to Northwestern Memorial immediately."
"Storm the pediatric wing on the fourth floor, neutralize Arthur Sterling's men, and secure room four-twelve."
"If anyone resists, put them in the morgue downstairs."
"Move now!"
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk.
Before Luca could give another order, the estate's perimeter alarm began to wail, a high-pitched siren piercing the night.
The red emergency lights in the ceiling began to flash, casting sinister crimson shadows across the study walls.
Dante's voice crackled through the intercom speaker on the wall.
"Boss, we have multiple hostiles breaching the north gate!" Dante shouted over the sound of automatic gunfire.
"Four heavy armored SUVs just rammed the perimeter barrier!"
"They aren't police, Luca—it's Sterling's private mercenary battalion!"
Luca didn't flinch; he simply unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled a heavy black automatic pistol from a shoulder holster.
"Arthur Sterling knows his daughter failed," Luca said calmly, racking the slide with a clean, metallic snap.
"He's coming to burn this house down, just like he did the Belmont."
He turned to me, his gaze fierce and uncompromising.
"Gianna, take Eleanor into the reinforced vault behind the bookcase."
"No matter what you hear out there, do not open that steel door until you hear my voice."
I shook my head firmly, stepping forward until I was standing toe-to-toe with the brother I had just found.
"I spent twenty-two years running and hiding from a past I didn't understand," I told him, my chin lifted high.
"I am not hiding in a box while you fight for our family."
"Give me a weapon, Luca."
Luca stared at me for three long seconds, and for the first time that night, a genuine smile broke through his grim facade.
"God help Arthur Sterling," Luca whispered, reaching into the desk drawer and handing me a sleek black nine-millimeter pistol.
May you like
"He didn't just fail to kill you, Gianna."
"He created another Moretti."
