Chapter 13 - Trapped in the Fortress"Lockdown is holding, Boss," Marco reported, staring at the control panels. "The perimeter doors are reinforced with triple-layer titanium. They can't blast their way in without C4, and even then, it'll take them hours."
"They aren't going to blast the doors, Marco," Dante said quietly, his gaze locked on the main monitor where the six intruders had split up, moving with terrifying, ghost-like precision toward the mansion's ventilation and glass atrium. "They're coming through the roof. They know this estate's architecture better than we do."
My stomach plummeted. "How could they know it? This is a Moretti stronghold!"
"Because," Dante said, turning to look straight at me with a look of agonizing realization, "the architect who designed this house twenty years ago was my uncle—the man who secretly defected to the Phoenix Syndicate before he vanished."
The pieces clicked together with the force of a freight train. They weren't just attacking us; they were hunting us with a blueprint written in our own family's blood.
"What do we do?" I asked, stepping forward, refusing to cower behind the desk. The fear inside me was rapidly crystallizing into pure, unadulterated rage. They had taken my childhood, they had stolen my real family, and now they were trying to take the only home and safety I had ever known. No more running.
Dante looked at me, and for a second, a flicker of raw hesitation crossed his eyes. "You and Marco take Lukas down to the subterranean bunker beneath the wine cellar. There's an escape tunnel that leads to the coast."
"And you?" I snapped.
"I'm going to hunt them in the dark," Dante said, racking the slide of a customized assault rifle. "This is my house. And nobody touches my family."
"I'm not hiding," I said, my voice dead serious. I walked over to the armory cabinet Marco had unlocked, my eyes scanning the racks of steel. "I have Elena's face, Dante. And according to you, I have her fire. If they want the bloodline, they're going to have to look me in the eye first."
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Dante stared at me, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked. Then, slowly, a grim, fierce nod escaped him. He reached into the cabinet, pulling out a compact, matte-black Glock 19 and a tactical holster, strapping it securely around my thigh.
"Stay behind me," Dante warned. "If you shoot, you don't miss."
