Chapter 12 - The Trojan HorseClara’s breath hitched. She didn't drop the lamp; instead, she swung her elbow backward with every ounce of adrenaline in her body, catching her unseen attacker square in the chest.
The man grunted, stumbling back. Clara spun around, raising the heavy brass lamp like a club.
It was one of Dante’s elite subordinates, a man named Paulie whom Clara had seen carrying files in the study just a week ago. Paulie glared at her, a jagged scratch bleeding across his jaw, a silenced pistol leveling right at her chest.
"You should have stayed in the kitchen, waitress," Paulie sneered, cocking the hammer of the gun.
"Paulie, stop!" Dante hissed, turning away from Rico's door. The head of security's face was twisted in agonizing conflict, sweat beading on his forehead. "She wasn't supposed to be awake. We do this cleanly, or we don't do it at all."
"Cleanly?" Paulie spat, his eyes wild with greed and panic. "Maroni’s dead, sure, but the commission thinks Rico’s gone soft because of a kid and a girl from a diner! The syndicate is splitting, Dante. Either we let them in to take out the capo, or they take us out next."
Clara’s mind raced. The commission. A coup from within. Dante hadn't turned fully, or perhaps he was being blackmailed. But right now, Rico was asleep inside, completely vulnerable.
"Dante," Clara said, her voice dropping to a cool, steady register that masked the sheer terror gripping her spine. "Look at your side. That wound never healed right, did it? Maroni's bullet left an infection. And they promised you a clean slate, didn't they? A pension to retire in Sicily."
Paulie frowned, glancing at Dante. "Shut her up, Dante! Shoot her!"
Dante raised his own weapon—not at Clara, but slowly, deliberately, turning the barrel until it pointed straight between Paulie’s eyes.
"She's right, Paulie," Dante whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, absolute coldness. "They promised me a pension. But the Moretti family pays its debts. And a traitor never gets to spend his gold."
Bang.
The silenced shot was muffled, but the impact threw Paulie backward against the wall, sliding down into a lifeless heap. The smell of cordite filled the plush hallway.
The door to the master suite whipped open.
Rico stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing a jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his eyes blazing like a caged predator. In his right hand, a heavy automatic pistol was already aimed and ready.
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He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: Paulie dead on the floor, Dante bleeding and lowering his gun, and Clara standing unharmed with a brass lamp in her hand.
"Explain," Rico commanded, his voice a low, lethal growl that shook the foundations of the hall.
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