Luca Moretti knew something was wrong before he even opened the door. The hallway outside the west sitting room was silent.

Gunfire shattered the midnight quiet of the estate.

The crack of automatic rifles echoed from the lower tree line near the private driveway, followed by the distinctive thunder of Moretti-issue shotguns firing back from the fortified guard towers.

Luca moved with terrifying, fluid efficiency. In less than ten seconds, he opened the concealed armory behind the bookshelf, retrieving a black tactical vest, two customized Glock 19s, and a semi-automatic tactical rifle.

“Stay in this room,” Luca ordered, tossing the vest over his shoulders and tightening the velcro straps. “The door is reinforced with six-inch steel plating. The deadbolt can only be released with my fingerprint or an override code from the panic bunker.”

Emma had already stood up, ignoring the throbbing pain in her wrists. “Luca, they didn't just come to talk to you. If Salvatore brought that many men, he’s not negotiating. He’s here to burn this place down and retrieve me before I can give you that ledger.”

“Nobody touches you in my house,” Luca said, his voice flat, absolute, and devoid of fear.

He stepped toward the door, but Emma grabbed his sleeve. Her fingers were surprisingly strong despite the bandages.

“The eastern service tunnel,” she said urgently. “The old wine cellar connects to the underground cistern that drains into the boathouse. Does Salvatore know about that?”

Luca paused, his dark eyes narrowing. “No. Only the senior council and the head groundskeeper know about the cistern.”

“Bianca knows,” Emma countered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Two weeks ago, I overheard her questioning the head gardener about the estate’s drainage blueprints. She claimed she wanted to redesign the rose gardens for the wedding. She was mapping your blind spots, Luca!”

Right on cue, an explosion rattled the east wing of the manor below them. The chandeliers in the bedroom swayed violently, showering the carpet with tiny crystals. Plaster dust fell from the ornate ceiling.

Alarms wailed through the corridors, shrill and deafening.

Luca keyed his radio. “Marco! Status!”

Static hissed over the channel, followed by Marco’s ragged breathing. *“Boss! They breached the lower wine cellar! They bypassed the gatehouse entirely—it was a diversion! They’re inside the residence!”*

“Pull your men back to the central staircase,” Luca ordered instantly. “Hold the second-floor mezzanine. Do not let them reach the living quarters.”

*“Understood!”*

Luca clicked off the radio and turned back to Emma. The cold calculation in his eyes had been replaced by a fierce, protective fire. He reached into his belt, pulled out one of his backup sidearms, checked the chamber with a crisp snap, and handed it to her handle-first.

“Do you know how to use this?”

Emma gripped the heavy polymer frame. “My father was a merchant marine before he ran Atlantic Cargo. He taught me how to shoot when I was twelve.”

“Good. Keep the safety off. Aim for center mass.”

Luca unlocked the reinforced bedroom door, opening it an inch to peer into the smoke-filled hallway. The smell of cordite and burning wood drifted up the grand staircase. Down below, the staccato rhythm of close-quarters combat reverberated through the marble halls.

“Follow my steps,” Luca commanded. “We’re taking the service elevator down to the garage. We leave the estate tonight.”

“Where are we going?” Emma asked, moving silently behind him, her eyes darting across every shadow.