Chapter 5 - Midnight Infiltration
The grandfather clock in the main foyer struck midnight, its deep, resonant chimes echoing through the empty halls like a death knell. I crept down the east wing corridor, wearing soft-soled running shoes and dark clothing, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The distraction Massimo had engineered was already underway. Down in the west wing, a simulated security breach—a staged perimeter alarm triggered by one of Massimo’s loyalists—had drawn Viktor and half the armed guard detail away from the central core of the mansion.
I reached the heavy mahogany doors of the private office. My hands trembled as I pulled a set of modified tension wrenches and picks from my medical bag—a trick I had learned from an old college roommate who fancied herself an amateur locksmith.
Click. Snap.
The lock gave way with a soft pop. I slipped inside, sliding the door shut behind me and clicking on a small pen-light.
The room smelled of old paper, gun oil, and expensive bourbon. I rushed to the mahogany desk, dropping onto my knees in front of the hidden wall safe behind a framed painting of Boston harbor. Massimo had given me the numeric sequence before dinner, a six-digit code based on the date of his mother’s passing.
I punched in the numbers. 1-1-4-8-9-2.
The heavy steel door swung open smoothly. Inside, there were no bags of cash or illegal firearms—just rows of encrypted flash drives, financial ledgers, and a stack of medical records bearing my own patient’s name.
I grabbed the flash drive labeled ‘Pascale Logistics – Q3’ and began flipping through the medical files. My breath caught in my throat. These weren’t Massimo’s official hospital charts. These were pharmacological reports detailing the exact chemical composition of the neuro-toxins being slipped into his daily protein shakes—toxins designed to mimic permanent spinal degradation while slowly shutting down his central nervous system.
And at the bottom of the signature line, authorizing the supply orders... was not Viktor’s signature, but a name I never expected to see.
Camila.
My best friend. The woman who had handed me this job on a silver platter.
The room seemed to tilt sideways. The pen-light slipped from my fingers, clattering softly against the hardwood floor.
Before I could process the betrayal, the office door clicked open behind me.
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“Well, well, well,” a smooth, cold voice purred from the doorway. “It looks like the little physical therapist is a very fast learner.”
I spun around. Standing in the doorway, holding a silenced pistol aimed directly at my chest, was Camila.
