Chapter 7 - The Breach at Frascati
The storm rolled over the Alban Hills twenty-four hours later, bringing with it sheets of gray rain that lashed against the ancient stone walls of Villa Vance.
The lightning illuminated the rolling olive groves in violent, instantaneous flashes of white.
Inside the nursery, Leo was sleeping soundly in his crib, having finished a late feeding at eleven. Maya was asleep in the adjoining bedroom, Barnaby the rabbit clutched under her chin.
I was sitting in an armchair by the nursery door, reading a pediatric nutrition journal under the warm glow of a small brass lamp, when the lights went out.
Total darkness swallowed the villa.
The low hum of the ventilation system died.
My heart instantly climbed into my throat. *Back-up generators,* I thought frantically. *A villa like this has back-up generators that kick in within three seconds.*
Five seconds passed. Ten seconds. Nothing.
Only the roar of the rain against the glass and the low rumble of thunder over the hills.
Then, through the darkness, the sharp, unmistakable *crack* of breaking glass echoed from the ground floor.
I sprang from the chair. My nursing instincts were instantly overridden by pure, feral maternal panic. I bolted into Maya’s room, scooped her up from the bed, blankets and all, and rushed back into the nursery.
“Mama?” Maya mumbled, disoriented. “Why is it dark?”
“Shh, sweet girl. Not a sound. Be as quiet as a mouse,” I whispered into her ear.
I picked up Leo with my free arm, holding him against my hip while balancing Maya against my chest. Leo let out a small whimper, sensing the tension. I pressed his face into my neck, muffling the sound.
The bedroom door clicked open.
I froze. My breath locked in my lungs.
A silhouette stood framed in the doorway against the faint lightning flashes from the terrace. Tall. Broad.
“Claire?”
The voice didn't belong to Julian.
It was flat. Nasal. Dripping with the sickening, familiar entitlement that had terrorized my life for five years.
Richard.
A flash of lightning illuminated his face. He was drenched in rain, wearing a dark waterproof jacket, his hair plastered to his forehead. In his right hand, he held a heavy tactical flashlight; in his left, a stainless-steel pry bar.
“Did you really think you could run from me, Claire?” Richard said, stepping into the nursery, his boots squeaking wetly on the parquet floor. “To Italy? With my daughter? Living in some European degenerate’s mansion?”
“Don't come any closer, Richard,” I said. My voice was shaking, but my feet were planted. I backed up against the heavy mahogany wardrobe, shielding both children behind my torso.
“You’re coming home,” Richard snarled, his eyes wild, dilated with the manic high of a man whose control was slipping. “The police have a warrant for you. I have court orders, Claire! You are a criminal! You kidnapped my child!”
“You shoved her into a table!” I yelled, rage finally tearing through my terror. “You broke her skin! You bruised my wrists! You are a monster, Richard!”
“She disobeyed me!” Richard roared, taking another step forward, raising the pry bar. “And you disobeyed me! But that ends tonight. Give me Maya. Now. Or by God, Claire, what happened in Columbus is going to look like a love tap.”
Leo began to scream, terrified by the shouting.
Richard’s face contorted in disgust. “Whose bastard is that? Is that his? Did you replace me with some billionaire’s brat?”
He lunged forward, reaching for Maya’s arm.
Maya screamed.
Every ounce of fear in my body evaporated, replaced by the ancient, blinding fury of a mother defending her young.
As Richard reached for Maya, I swung my right leg back and kicked with everything I had, driving the heel of my boot straight into his kneecap.
There was a sickening *pop*.
Richard howled in agony, collapsing to one knee, dropping the pry bar. “You bitch!”
He lunged upward from the floor, his fingers clawing for my throat.
He never reached me.
Out of the darkness behind him, a shadow materialized like a vengeful ghost.
A massive, gloved hand clamped around Richard’s throat from behind, while another gripped the wrist holding the flashlight, twisting it with brutal, mechanical efficiency.
*Crack.*
Richard shrieked as his wrist snapped backward.
Julian Vance slammed the six-foot-two surgeon down onto the hardwood floor, driving his knee directly between Richard’s shoulder blades.
The heavy emergency lights suddenly flickered, surged, and hummed to life, bathing the room in harsh, white halogen glare.
Marcus stepped through the doorway, his gun drawn and lowered, his face bleeding from a cut across his cheek. “Perimeter secured, Mr. Vance. Two intruders neutralized in the lower courtyard. Italian Carabinieri are coming up the drive.”
Richard was pinned to the floor, his cheek smashed against the wood, groaning in sheer agony.
Julian didn't look down at him. He looked up at me.
His suit was torn at the shoulder, his knuckles bleeding, his chest heaving with silent, deadly rage. But when his gray eyes met mine, checking Maya, checking Leo, checking every inch of my body for wounds, the fury in them transformed into a profound, breathless relief.
“Are you hurt?” Julian asked, his voice shaking with a rare, terrifying emotion.
“No,” I choked out, tears finally cascading down my face as I clutched both crying children against my chest. “We’re okay. We’re okay.”
Julian slowly stood, keeping one polished shoe pressed firmly onto Richard’s fractured wrist.
Richard whimpered, looking up with tears of pain streaming down his face. “Do you know who I am? I am the Chief of Orthopedic Surgery at St. Jude! This is international kidnapping! I’ll have your diplomatic status revoked! I’ll sue you into the gutter!”
Julian looked down at the pathetic, broken man beneath his boot.
“Dr. Bennett,” Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, colder than a winter grave. “Ten minutes ago, the DEA raided your home in Upper Arlington, Ohio. They found sixty thousand illicit oxycodone pills in your basement gun safe, along with thirty-two fraudulent prescription pads bearing the names of deceased physicians.”
Richard’s face drained of every drop of color. His jaw dropped. “That’s... that’s not mine. That was Carl’s—”
“Carl turned state’s evidence three hours ago,” Julian continued smoothly. “In exchange for a reduced sentence, he provided audio recordings of you selling fentanyl patches out of the trunk of your BMW in the hospital parking garage.”
Sirens began to wail in the distance, echoing up the winding mountain roads of Frascati.
Julian leaned down, his face inches from Richard’s ear.
May you like
“You didn't just lose your daughter, Richard. You lost your medical license, your freedom, and your life. You are going to spend the next thirty years in an American federal penitentiary. And every time you close your eyes, you will remember that it happened because you touched the woman who belongs to me.”
***
