Chapter 6 - The Trap Sprung
The drive back to the Long Island fortress was suffocatingly tense. The adrenaline from the gala had begun to recede, leaving behind the cold reality of what had just transpired. Edmund had been humiliated on the largest stage in the state, but a wounded, cornered rat was always the most dangerous.
Inside the armored Maybach, Nico sat with his laptop open, issuing rapid commands via encrypted comms.
"Dante, pull our men from the Brooklyn docks," Nico spoke into his headset. "Edmund won't target the commercial lines. He knows the feds are already opening an investigation into Ashford Capital based on Nora's public statements. He’s going to make a run for his liquid assets."
"Boss," Dante’s voice crackled through the speaker. "We’ve got a problem. The security alarms at the Ashford estate in Westchester just went off. Silent tripwires on the private study."
My head snapped up. "The study? He’s destroying the evidence!"
"He’s not waiting until morning," Nico said grimly, closing his laptop. "He knows the DA will issue a search warrant by nine AM. He’s burning the house down."
"The Persephone statue," I said, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped bird. "The safety deposit key is inside the base! If the fire destroys the office, or if Edmund retrieves that key and empties the vault before the banks open, we lose everything! The manifests, the audio recordings—the only proof that clears Marco’s name!"
Nico grabbed the satellite phone in the center console. "Dante, reroute the convoy. Westchester estate. Full tactical gear. Authorize lethal force on any Ashford security personnel attempting to extract assets."
"Nico, wait," I grabbed his arm, feeling the rock-hard tension in his bicep. "The Westchester house is built like a bunker. My father installed high-grade halon fire suppression systems in the main halls, but the study has a separate blast-resistant vault door. If he locks himself inside from the interior panel, you can’t breach it with small arms. It takes three hours with an industrial cutting torch."
Nico looked at me, his jaw set. "Then how do we get in?"
"There’s a wine cellar directly beneath the study," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. "When I was fifteen, I found an old dumbwaiter shaft behind the brickwork that connected to the study's private coat closet. Edmund forgot it existed forty years ago. A grown man can't fit through it, Nico. But I can."
Nico’s dark eyes flashed with immediate fury. "No. Absolutely not. You are not crawling into an active kill zone while Edmund is armed and desperate."
"It’s my father, Nico!" I yelled, refusing to back down from the terrifying don of New York. "He took your brother's life, and he took ten years of mine! You saved me from that chapel. You gave me my dignity back in front of the entire city tonight. Let me help you bury him!"
Nico stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. For the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes—not fear of bullets, rival syndicates, or prison, but fear of losing me. The realization sent a warm, piercing shock through my core. He didn't just see me as an ally or an instrument of revenge anymore.
He cared for me.
Slowly, Nico reached inside his jacket, pulled out a compact, black ceramic 9mm automatic, and pressed it into my palm. He wrapped his large fingers around mine, forcing me to feel the weight of the steel.
"One in the chamber," he said, his voice raw. "Safety is off. If Edmund looks at you, you don't hesitate. You don't speak. You pull the trigger. Do you swear to me, Nora?"
"I swear."
Nico nodded once, turned to the driver, and barked, "Floor it."
Twenty minutes later, the armored convoy breached the wrought-iron gates of the Ashford mansion in Westchester. The iron gates hung off their hinges, crushed by heavy tires. Plumes of black, oily smoke poured from the second-story windows of the east wing, painting the midnight sky with embers.
Gunfire crackled in the distance—the sharp, rhythmic pops of automatic rifles echoing across the front lawn. Edmund’s remaining loyal mercenaries were engaging Ferrara enforcers near the courtyard fountain.
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"Dante! Suppressive fire on the west terrace!" Nico roared, kicking his door open before the Maybach had even come to a complete halt. He pulled his assault rifle from the floorboard, racking the bolt with lethal efficiency. "Form a perimeter! Don't let anyone out!"
Nico grabbed my hand, pulling me low behind the stone balustrade of the lower terrace, moving with terrifying speed through the blinding smoke toward the cellar entrance.
