Chapter 3 - The Lockdown Protocol
I didn’t hesitate. Survival instinct overrode every shred of etiquette or class divide. I crossed the polished hardwood floor and placed my trembling hand into Luca Moretti's grip.
His hand was warm, calloused, and unyielding. The moment my fingers met his, he pulled me behind his broad frame, placing himself directly between me and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lawn.
“Marco,” Luca said, his voice devoid of panic, operating with the cold efficiency of a general on a battlefield. “Activate Protocol Black. The dining room glass is ballistic-grade, but I don't want anyone in this wing. Get the guests into the subterranean vault through the wine cellar. Seal the vault doors from the inside.”
“What about her?” Marco asked, gesturing with the barrel of his sidearm toward Vanessa, who was weeping uncontrollably on the carpet.
Luca looked down at the woman he had intended to marry with unadulterated apathy. “Tie her wrists. Put her in the holding room beneath the garage. If she screams, gag her. She stays alive until I get the codes to Vance’s offshore accounts.”
“Luca, please! Have mercy!” Vanessa shrieked, clawing at his trouser leg as Marco seized her by the upper arms and hauled her upright. “I was terrified! Vance threatened my brother! He said he’d butcher him if I didn’t help!”
“Your brother died of an overdose in Miami six weeks ago, Vanessa,” Luca said coldly, revealing a truth that struck her like a physical blow. “Vance played you. And you sold your soul to a ghost.”
Vanessa’s eyes went wide, hollow with horror, as Marco dragged her kicking and sobbing through the reinforced side entrance.
The house shook.
A muffled boom echoed from the eastern gates—the distinct thunder of an explosive breaching charge. Outside, tires shrieked against gravel, followed by the rapid, rhythmic chatter of automatic gunfire. The security guards Luca had posted along the tree line were engaging Vance's strike team.
“Down,” Luca ordered, his arm locking around my waist and pulling me down behind the heavy oak sideboard as a spray of high-caliber rounds struck the dining room windows.
The glass didn't shatter into loose shards; instead, it cracked into spiderweb fractures of frosted white, deflecting the heavy lead slugs. Even so, the sheer kinetic force sent fragments of plaster raining down from the decorative ceiling moldings.
I buried my face in the fabric of Luca’s suit jacket, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs. I could smell cedar, expensive cologne, and the faint, bitter metallic tang of gunpowder.
“Look at me, Grace,” he said.
I looked up. His face was only inches from mine. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes were completely steady. In the midst of gunfire, glass dust, and imminent death, Luca Moretti looked entirely in control.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“N-no,” I managed to stammer. “I’m okay. Mr. Moretti, my mother—my mother lives on 47th Street. If Vance knows who I am—”
“Vance doesn't know who pulled that chair yet,” Luca cut in, his thumb gently brushing a streak of drywall dust off my cheekbone. The gesture was shockingly tender, completely at odds with the carnage erupting outside. “He only knows the bomb didn't detonate. But the moment his men realize you saved my life, she will be leverage. Which is why we are going to secure her right now.”
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an encrypted satellite phone, and speed-dialed a single number.
“Dominic,” Luca spoke into the receiver without waiting for an answer. “Take four men. Unmarked sedans. 47th and Elm. An alterations shop named Parker Tailoring. There is an older woman inside named Helen Parker. Extract her with extreme prejudice to anyone outside. Bring her to the North Shore safe house. Do not use local frequencies. Go.”
He hung up before the man on the other end could even respond.
Luca looked back down at me. “Your mother will be safe within twenty minutes. I give you my word, Grace.”
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. In eight months of scrubbing his marble floors, polishing his antique silverware, and staying invisible in the corners of his immense mansion, Luca Moretti had barely said ten words to me. To the rest of the staff, he was an enigma—a terrifying, ruthless titan who commanded an empire through blood and discipline.
Yet here he was, shielding me with his own body and dispatching a security team to rescue my mother before Vance even knew her name.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“You saved my life,” he said simply, his voice low and dangerous. “I protect what belongs to me. And as long as you are under my roof, you belong to my household.”
Another explosion rocked the grounds, closer this time. The chandeliers swayed wildly overhead, casting chaotic shadows across the walls. The exterior floodlights suddenly cut out, plunging the grand dining room into deep, terrifying darkness, illuminated only by the faint red glow of the transmitter on the table.
“The main power grid is down,” Luca murmured, pulling a black semi-automatic pistol from his waistband with practiced ease. “The backup generators will take forty seconds to cycle. We move now.”
He took my hand, his grip unshakeable, and pulled me toward the hidden service passage behind the pantry.
May you like
We stepped into the darkened hallway just as the front doors of the mansion were blown off their hinges with a deafening roar.
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