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The heavy mahogany doors of the east wing did not creak when Lorenzo pushed them open; they swung with a quiet, expensive finality, as if they knew better than to make a sound. / Chapter 8 / 10

Chapter 8 - Ambush on the Cliff RoadDoors slammed open across the fog-shrouded road.

Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel as six masked men emerged from the blinding glare of the SUV headlights, their submachine guns raised and leveled directly at the windshield of the Mercedes.

"Stay down!" Gianni growled, drawing a heavy Beretta from his shoulder holster with lightning speed and kicking open his door to roll onto the asphalt.

Clara pulled Mia tightly against her chest, ducking below the window line as the first volley of automatic gunfire shattered the rear windshield. Glass rained down over them like lethal hail, mixing with the screams of the wind and the deafening roar of the ocean below.

"We've been compromised!" Gianni shouted into his radio communicator, firing three rapid shots through the smoke, dropping one of the attackers before a hail of return fire forced him to dive behind the engine block of the Mercedes. "San Lorenzo route is ambushed! Send backup—"

Click.

The radio went dead with a burst of static.

Clara’s heart pounded against her ribs so hard she felt sick. They had walked right into a second trap. Moretti wasn't the only one who wanted her dead; the rival families must have known about Salvatore Gallo's lineage all along, using Moretti as bait to draw Lorenzo out and eliminate his inner circle.

One of the masked men stepped forward, walking slowly toward the passenger side of the car, his rifle barrel resting casually against his thigh. He reached out, his gloved hand gripping the door handle, and yanked it open.

"Out, little bird," a harsh, disguised voice sneered. "The boss wants to see what Salvatore left behind."

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, pressing Mia's face into her coat so the child wouldn't see the barrel of the gun. She whispered a frantic prayer to a God she hadn't believed in since she was a child.

Please. Anyone. Please.

Suddenly, the night air ripped open with a sound that wasn't gunfire.

It was the deep, thunderous roar of a high-performance engine screaming down the mountain pass at suicidal speeds.

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My phone was still pressed against my ear. On the other end, Marcus—my most trusted lieutenant—was breathing heavily. The sound of muffled police radios and shouting filtered through the speaker.

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Detective Maria Santos tapped her fingernail against the glossy photograph spread across the metal interrogation table. The overhead fluorescent light hummed, casting a sterile, buzzing shadow over the room.

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Katherine did not cry when she walked into their immaculate suburban home. The silence of the empty house, which usually felt lonely on the nights Reginald claimed to be working late, now felt like a tactical advantage.

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Before the masked man could turn around, a black matte sports car—a custom-tuned Ferrari 812 Competizione—blasted out of the fog like a bat out of hell, plowing directly into the side of the lead SUV with an ear-splitting crunch of tearing metal and shattering glass.

The SUV flipped over twice before tumbling off the cliff edge and disappearing into the dark abyss of the sea.

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