Chapter 3 – THE TRAITOR ON THE PERSIAN RUG

“Drop it, Boss,” Marco said smoothly, his handgun unwavering in the glare of the tactical flashlight.

Luca stood perfectly still, shielding Caroline and Valentina behind his broad shoulders. I was kneeling on the floor behind them, holding my semi-conscious sister upright.

“Marco,” Luca said, his voice entirely devoid of fear. “You’ve eaten at my table for ten years. You’re making a mistake.”

“The mistake was thinking you could survive a war with the Council,” Marco replied. He gestured to the three heavily armed men flanking him on the landing. “Daniel pays in unmarked offshore accounts. You pay in loyalty. Loyalty doesn’t buy real estate.”

Daniel stepped out from the guest room behind us, buttoning his suit jacket as if he hadn’t just been exposed as a monster.

“Secure the women,” Daniel ordered Marco. “Take the pregnant one to the basement. I’ll deal with her later. Bring Caroline to the cars. The Council still wants the wedding.”

“No!” Valentina shrieked.

She threw herself in front of Caroline, spreading her arms wide. Her ruined red dress made her look like a bleeding target in the harsh flashlight beams.

“Take me,” Valentina begged, the arrogance entirely stripped from her soul. “I brokered the deal! I have the accounts! Leave my daughter alone!”

“Mom, don’t,” Caroline sobbed, grabbing her mother’s shoulders.

Daniel laughed. “Valentina, you have zero leverage. Marco, move them.”

Marco stepped forward, his boots heavy on the floor.

He stepped directly onto the long, antique Persian rug that covered the center of the hallway.

I knew that rug. I vacuumed it twice a week. I knew that the anti-slip mat underneath it had been removed two days ago by the dry cleaners and hadn’t been replaced yet.

I didn’t think. I just acted.

I lunged forward from my knees, grabbing the heavy marble pedestal that held an antique vase near the wall. I shoved it with all my body weight directly into Marco’s path.

Marco didn’t trip over the pedestal. He sidestepped it.

But his heavy combat boot landed hard on the edge of the unsecured Persian rug.

The silk fabric shot out from under him like ice.

Marco fell backward, his arms flailing, his flashlight dropping to the floor and spinning wildly.

In that single second of chaos, Luca moved with terrifying speed.

He didn’t draw a gun. He lunged forward, grabbing Marco’s wrist, twisting it until a sickening crack echoed through the hall. Marco screamed, dropping his weapon. Luca caught the gun mid-air and instantly fired twice into the darkness, dropping two of the mercenaries on the stairs.

“Run!” Luca roared.

Valentina grabbed Caroline’s hand and sprinted down the opposite end of the hallway toward the library.

I hauled Rebecca up. “Come on, Becca! You have to run!”

We staggered down the hall. Gunfire erupted behind us, bullets chewing into the expensive mahogany wainscoting. Luca provided covering fire, walking backward, his face illuminated by the muzzle flashes.

We burst through the heavy double doors of the library.

Valentina was already throwing books off a massive built-in shelf, frantically pressing the hidden keypad behind a false panel.

The massive steel vault door of the panic room clicked and swung open.

“Get in!” Valentina yelled.

I shoved Rebecca inside. She was gasping for air, her face pale and shining with sweat. Caroline followed, then Valentina.

Luca backed into the room last. He fired one final shot down the hallway before grabbing the heavy steel handle and pulling the vault door shut.

The locking mechanism engaged with a heavy, final thud.

The panic room was illuminated by dim, battery-powered emergency lights. It smelled of stale air and old steel. There were security monitors on the wall, but they were dead—Daniel’s men had cut the main lines.

“Are you all right?” Luca asked, breathing heavily as he checked the magazine of the stolen gun.

“We’re fine,” Valentina gasped, sinking against the wall. “But they have blowtorches, Luca. They’ll cut through that door.”

“It’ll buy us an hour,” Luca said grimly. “My loyal men will secure the perimeter before then.”

Suddenly, a horrific, agonizing scream filled the small room.

I whipped around.

Rebecca was on her knees, clutching her swollen stomach, her eyes wide with absolute panic.

“Emily,” she gasped, her fingernails digging into her thighs. “Emily, it’s coming.”

My blood ran cold. “Becca, no. You’re only eight months.”

“My water broke,” she sobbed, a dark stain spreading across her cotton dress. “The baby is coming right now.”

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