Chapter 3 - THE PUMP HOUSE AMBUSHThe ventilation shaft was claustrophobic, narrow, and coated in a thick layer of decades-old grime. We crawled on our hands and knees, the abrasive concrete scraping against my palms. I kept Emma directly in front of me, shielding her body with my own, while Lorenzo brought up the rear, dragging his injured leg.
Every breath felt like swallowing glass. The muffled roar of the ocean grew louder with every yard we advanced, signaling our approach to the cliffs.
When we finally pushed open the louvered vent at the end of the line, the cold ocean wind hit us like a slap.
We tumbled out onto the weathered wooden floor of the abandoned pump house. It was a small, octagonal structure perched precariously over the jagged rocks of the cove below, far removed from the main mansion lights.
“Stay down,” Lorenzo ordered, crawling toward the cracked window that looked out over the private dock.
I pulled Emma close, wrapping my arms around her small frame as we huddled behind a rusted water pump. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Through the salt-crusted glass, the scene outside was a nightmare in motion.
Parked at the end of the wooden pier was a sleek, black speedboat idling in the churning surf. Standing beside it was Marco—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing an expensive wool coat that looked entirely out of place against the rough sea spray.
And standing right beside him, holding a silver cigarette case with absolute composure, was Elena Duca.
The moonlight caught the sharp, aristocratic lines of her face. She looked pristine, elegant, and utterly ruthless.
“Are you sure the body is still in the garden?” Marco’s voice carried clearly across the water, sharp and impatient.
“Rico and his men swept the area,” Elena replied, her voice smooth and chillingly calm. “Lorenzo was bleeding out when he crawled toward the west wing. Even if by some miracle he dragged himself into the woods, he won’t survive the night without medical attention. The family council meets at dawn. By the time the sun comes up, I’ll be the sole head of the table.”
“And the maid?” Marco sneered. “And her kid?”
Elena paused, snapping her cigarette case shut with a sharp click.
“Collateral damage. Clean up the mess, Marco. I don’t want a single trace left behind.”
Inside the pump house, I felt the blood drain completely from my face. They weren’t just hunting Lorenzo—they were hunting us.
Lorenzo’s expression turned into something terrifying. The cold, calculating brutality of the mafia boss I had only ever heard whispered about in fear suddenly resurfaced, eclipsing the wounded fugitive.
“They sealed our fate,” Lorenzo whispered, cocking his pistol.
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“What are you doing?” I hissed, grabbing his arm. “There are four armed men down there plus Marco. You can’t take them all with one leg and three bullets!”
“I don’t need to take them all,” Lorenzo replied, his eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, predatory intensity. “I just need to get you and your daughter onto that boat.”
