Chapter 3 - THE GPS IN THE LOCKBOX
The blinking red light of the tracker felt like a strobe light in the dimly lit dining room.
Isabella stood frozen, her chest heaving, staring at the open metal box as if a venomous snake had crawled out of it.
“I didn't know,” Isabella gasped, shaking her head frantically. “Luca, I swear to God, I didn't know that was inside!”
Luca’s expression was unreadable, a terrifying mask of controlled violence. He picked up the tracker, examining the sophisticated wiring.
“This is military grade, Bella,” Luca said, his voice low and dangerous. “You don't buy this at an electronics store. Daniel has been tracking you for days. He heard everything we just said. He heard you expose Vanessa.”
“But I packed the box myself!” she cried, tears spilling down her cheeks again. “It was empty! I was going to put my grandmother’s pearls in it before I left, but Daniel came home early. I just grabbed it and ran!”
My mind raced. If Isabella hadn't put it there, then Daniel had planted it before she even left.
“He knew you were going to leave,” I whispered, realizing the horrific implication.
Both Luca and Isabella turned to look at me.
“What do you mean, Emily?” Luca asked sharply.
“If Daniel planted the tracker in her suitcase before she left on Thursday,” I said, swallowing hard, “then he wasn't surprised when she ran away. He planned for it. He wanted to know exactly where she would go.”
Luca’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
“He didn't just want to find you, Bella,” Luca deduced, the cold logic of a mafia boss taking over. “He wanted you to lead him to me.”
“Why would he do that?” Isabella sobbed, collapsing back into her chair. “He’s just a real estate developer! He’s in debt!”
“Because a three-million-dollar forged guarantee doesn't fix a crumbling company, Bella,” Luca stated grimly. “Daniel didn't need Vanessa’s money to save his business. He needed Vanessa’s money to buy the equipment required to hit this estate.”
The room suddenly felt icy.
“Hit the estate?” I repeated, terrified.
“The tracker isn't just sending a location,” Luca said, turning the device over. He pointed to a small, secondary antenna wired to the battery pack. “It’s a localized signal jammer. It’s been building a charge. Once it activates, it knocks out the mansion's internal security cameras and the encrypted radio frequencies my guards use.”
He dropped the device onto the floor and crushed it violently under the heel of his leather shoe.
The red light died instantly.
“Marco!” Luca roared, turning toward the heavy mahogany doors.
Nothing happened.
The doors remained closed. The usual immediate response of his massive head of security was missing.
Luca drew a heavy, suppressed pistol from a shoulder holster hidden beneath his suit jacket.
“Emily, get behind me,” Luca commanded, stepping between me and the doors.
I scrambled backward, pulling Isabella with me. We huddled near the massive fireplace, terrified.
Luca walked silently to the doors. He didn't open them. He pressed his ear against the thick wood.
The silence outside the dining room was unnatural. The mansion, usually buzzing with the activity of a dozen armed guards, was dead quiet.
“The jammer was already active,” Luca whispered, racking the slide of his pistol. “They couldn't call for backup.”
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors splintered inward with a deafening crash.
I screamed, covering my head as wood fragments rained down on the Persian rug.
Three men dressed in dark tactical gear poured into the dining room, raising assault rifles equipped with laser sights.
But Luca didn't hesitate. He was a man who had survived a dozen assassination attempts before he was thirty.
He moved with terrifying, fluid speed.
Before the first tactical guard could even aim, Luca fired two suppressed rounds directly into the man’s chest. The guard dropped like a stone.
Luca grabbed the falling man by the tactical vest, spinning him around to use his body as a human shield just as the other two guards opened fire.
The dining room erupted in chaos. Bullets shredded the priceless paintings on the walls, shattered the crystal chandelier, and tore through the expensive plaster.
I pulled Isabella flat onto the floor, squeezing my eyes shut, praying for the gunfire to stop.
It ended as abruptly as it began.
I opened my eyes, coughing through the dust and cordite smoke filling the room.
Luca stood amidst the wreckage, his suit covered in plaster dust, breathing heavily. The three tactical guards lay dead on the floor.
“Are you hurt?” Luca demanded, rushing over to us.
“We’re okay,” I gasped, though my hands were shaking so violently I could barely push myself up.
Isabella was staring at the dead men, her face completely drained of color.
“Luca,” she whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the closest body.
Luca knelt down and pulled the black ski mask off the dead guard’s face.
It wasn't a professional hitman. It wasn't a rival gang member.
“That’s David,” Isabella choked out, tears of absolute horror springing to her eyes. “He’s Daniel’s project manager. He works at the real estate company.”
Luca stared at the dead man, realizing the full scope of the betrayal.
“Daniel didn't hire mercenaries,” Luca said, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. “He armed his own desperate employees.”
He stood up, checking the magazine of his pistol.
“He’s bankrupt, Bella,” Luca explained quickly. “He’s facing federal indictment for fraud. He knows I would never bail him out. So he used your desperation to plant a jammer in my house, armed his failing construction crew, and came here to rob my private vault to pay off his debts.”
“He used me,” Isabella sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “He made me think I was escaping, but I was just a Trojan horse.”
“He’s going to die for it,” Luca promised softly.
He turned to me.
“Emily, the main hallways are compromised. I need to get you and Bella to the panic room in the west wing. Do you still have the master keys to the servant corridors?”
I nodded frantically, digging into the pocket of my uniform apron and pulling out a heavy ring of brass keys.
“The pantry connects to the laundry chutes, which lead to the sub-basement,” I said, my voice trembling but focused. “We can bypass the main floor entirely.”
“Good,” Luca said. “Lead the way.”
We hurried out of the ruined dining room, stepping carefully over the bodies, and slipped into the massive, stainless-steel kitchen.
The kitchen was empty. The staff had likely fled when the shooting started.
I used a small brass key to unlock a heavy, unmarked door at the back of the pantry. It opened to reveal a dark, narrow stone staircase spiraling downward.
“Stay close,” Luca whispered, stepping in front of us, using a small flashlight attached to his gun to pierce the gloom.
We descended quickly and quietly, the cold, damp air of the sub-basement wrapping around us.
When we reached the bottom, we were in a maze of old wine cellars and storage rooms.
“The panic room is fifty yards down this corridor,” Luca whispered, gesturing ahead.
But as we moved down the dark hallway, a metallic scraping sound echoed from the shadows ahead of us.
Luca immediately raised his gun, stepping in front of us.
“Show yourself,” Luca commanded, his voice lethal.
A figure stepped out from behind a stack of wooden crates.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
It was Marco, Luca’s massive head of security.
But Marco wasn't rushing to help us.
He was holding an assault rifle, and he was pointing it directly at Luca’s chest.
“Sorry, Boss,” Marco said, his voice heavy with grim resignation.
Luca didn't lower his weapon. He stared at his most trusted friend, a man who had taken a bullet for him five years ago.
“Marco,” Luca said quietly, the betrayal hitting him far harder than the bullets upstairs. “How much did Daniel pay you?”
“Daniel didn't pay me a dime,” Marco spat, looking disgusted. “Daniel is an idiot who thinks he’s pulling off a heist. I’m just using his little invasion as cover.”
“Cover for what?” Luca demanded.
Marco slowly pulled a folded piece of paper from his tactical vest and tossed it onto the damp floor between them.
“Cover for this,” Marco said.
I looked down at the paper.
It was a photograph.
But it wasn't a picture of Luca, or Isabella, or Daniel.
It was a picture of me.
May you like
And drawn heavily across my face was a thick, red ‘X’.
“The hit isn't for you tonight, Luca,” Marco said, aiming the rifle directly at me. “It’s for the maid.”
