Chapter 8 - THE BROADCAST ROOMThe corridors of the Duca estate were deathly quiet.
Every crystal chandelier overhead seemed to hum with an oppressive tension. Through the tall arched windows overlooking the courtyard, I could see armed guards patrolling the perimeter in pairs, their assault rifles held at the ready.
I kept my head down, pushing a heavy housekeeping cart loaded with fresh linens and cleaning supplies as I navigated the labyrinthine hallways toward the communications wing on the third floor.
“Attention all units,” a harsh voice crackled over a nearby wall intercom—Rico’s voice. “Sweep the northern perimeter again. Marco thinks someone triggered a motion sensor near the boathouse.”
My heart skipped a beat. Lorenzo had made his move.
I quickened my pace, turning down a narrow corridor lined with mahogany wainscoting.
Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped my shoulder from behind.
I froze, my hand instantly dropping into the apron pocket to grip the cold steel of the pistol.
“Hey! You there—stop.”
I turned around slowly, schooling my features into a mask of terrified, meek submission.
It was one of Marco’s enforcers—a scarred brute named Vinnie whom I had seen patrolling the gaming rooms earlier in the week. His eyes raked over my stained maid’s uniform with instant suspicion.
“What are you doing on this floor? The entire third wing is restricted for the family council.”
“Head housekeeping sent me,” I said, keeping my voice steady and breathy, playing the part of the intimidated servant to absolute perfection. “The memorial linens need to be changed in the private broadcast suite before Madame Duca’s address.”
Vinnie narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. The smell of cheap cigars and gun oil washed over him. “Housekeeping doesn’t use this corridor today. Turn around.”
He reached out to grab my arm.
That was my mistake—or rather, his.
Before his fingers could close around my wrist, I drew the pistol from my apron pocket and slammed the heavy barrel straight up into his chin with bone-crunching force.
Vinnie staggered back with a guttural grunt, his eyes rolling back. Before he could hit the floor, I grabbed the heavy housekeeping cart and shoved it forward, pinning him against the wood-paneled wall.
He slumped unconscious onto a pile of clean white bathsheets.
I didn't waste a second. I dragged his limp body into a nearby broom closet, locked the door, and broke into a dead sprint down the remaining hallway until I reached the massive double oak doors of the master broadcast suite.
The digital keypad lock glowed red.
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the master override keycard Lorenzo had slipped into my apron earlier, and swiped it across the reader.
May you like
Green light.
The heavy doors clicked open, and I slipped inside.
