Chapter 8 - Preparing the Trap
The next two hours passed in a blur of deadly, calculated efficiency.
Following the instructions in Luca’s ledger and Clara’s uncanny guidance, Emma secured every door and window in the sprawling estate. She positioned the manila folders containing the syndicate’s dirtiest secrets across the grand dining table—exposed and waiting like bait in a trap.
She also checked Luca’s private armory in the basement, loading shotguns, submachine guns, and ammunition magazines with trembling hands. She wasn't an assassin, but she was a desperate sister protecting her family.
By eleven-thirty, the house was a fortress wrapped in absolute silence.
Emma and Clara sat in the grand library, the heavy oak doors locked behind them. The moon hung high and pale outside the tall French windows, casting a silver glow across the Persian rugs.
"They're at the front gates," Clara murmured, her head tilting toward the foyer as if listening to a sound miles away. "Three vehicles. Twelve men. Victor Moretti is in the lead car."
Emma chambered a round in her shotgun, her knuckles white. "Let them come."
A few moments later, the heavy sound of iron gates being breached echoed across the estate grounds, followed by the crunch of heavy tires rolling up the gravel driveway. Then came the unmistakable sound of booted feet swarming the front porch.
Crash.
The front double doors splintered inward as a charge blew the deadbolts clean off. Heavy, tactical footsteps flooded the foyer, shouting orders in harsh, aggressive tones.
"Clear the rooms!" a gruff voice barked—Victor Moretti himself. "Find the girl! And burn this damn house to the ground if you have to!"
In the library, Emma held her breath, raising the shotgun toward the heavy oak door. Beside her, Clara sat calmly in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her blind eyes staring serenely into the dark space before her.
"Are you ready, Clara?" Emma whispered.
May you like
"I have been ready for fifteen years," Clara replied softly.
The library doors rattled. Someone kicked the handle, and the heavy wood splintered open, revealing Victor Moretti standing in the doorway, a pistol in his hand and a cruel, triumphant smirk plastered across his scarred face.
