Chapter 7 - The Trap Is SprungThe storm outside had reached its peak, shaking the high-rise windows with violent gusts of wind and deafening cracks of thunder.
I sat in the secure master suite, dressed in a simple silk robe, staring at the digital monitor displaying the live security feeds of the penthouse. Down in the main foyer, the house was deathly quiet.
According to Damian's plan, tonight was the night the traitor inside his inner circle would make their final play, believing Damian was away at an emergency summit across the bay.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Eight months pregnant, trapped in a high-stakes mafia war zone, playing the role of the bait.
Clack.
A soft sound echoed from the private elevator foyer.
I froze, my hand instantly going to my stomach. I stared at the security monitor. The camera feed for the private elevator lobby flickered, static dancing across the screen before cutting out completely.
Someone had remotely disabled the camera circuit.
Slowly, silently, I slipped off the bed and crept toward the bedroom door, keeping to the shadows. I gripped a heavy brass candlestick I had taken from the study, my knuckles turning white.
The heavy mahogany door of the master suite clicked. The lock turned from the outside.
The door swung open, revealing a tall, impeccably tailored figure holding a silenced pistol.
In the dim emergency lighting, the face of the intruder sent a jolt of absolute horror through my spine.
It wasn't a nameless hitman. It wasn't a rival mobster.
It was Marcus Vance.
Dr. Vance? The man Damian swore was rotting at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea?
Vance stepped into the room, a cold, calculating smile playing across his thin lips. He looked completely unbothered, perfectly composed, holding the suppressed firearm with casual familiarity.
"Well, well, well," Vance murmured, his voice smooth and dripping with condescension. "The miraculous resurrection of Isabella Hayes. Or should I say... Mrs. Moretti."
I backed away until my spine hit the cold glass of the balcony door, raising the heavy brass candlestick defensively. "You're supposed to be dead. Damian said he killed you."
Vance let out a dry, chilling laugh. "Damian is a brilliant tactician, Isabella, but he is entirely blinded by his arrogance. He actually believed a simple hit squad could take me out? I am his medical director. I know every secret, every backdoor, and every escape route in this fortress."
"Why?" I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady while my mind raced for a way out. "Why try to poison me? What did I ever do to you?"
"You didn't do anything to me, my dear," Vance smiled, taking another slow step closer. "You simply carried the wrong child. A Moretti heir secures Damian’s dynasty for another generation. But with you and the child gone... Damian’s grip on the commission weakens. And the syndicate falls right into the hands of the person who actually pays my salary."
Before Vance could raise his gun, the hallway lights suddenly flared to life with blinding brilliance.
A slow, chilling clap echoed from the doorway.
"Magnificent speech, Marcus," a voice echoed through the room.
May you like
Vance spun around, his face draining of all color.
Leaning against the doorframe, casually twirling a silver lighter between his fingers, was Damian. And standing right behind him, flanked by a dozen armed guards, was the person whose identity shattered my world completely.
