Chapter 7 - THE SABOTAGED SUV AND THE RACE AGAINST TIME
The silence that followed Sal Maroni’s final, ragged breath was absolute, broken only by the steady drumming of the rain against the metal roof of the garage.
“The armored SUV,” Luca repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
He slowly stood up, his dark eyes wide with a terrifying realization. He looked at Marco, who was just returning from loading the unconscious guards into the backup vehicles.
“Marco,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating hum. “Did Silvio’s snipers outside ever fire a single shot when you arrived?”
Marco frowned, wiping the rain from his scarred face. “No, Boss. I took them out silently on the roof, but they didn't even have their rifles raised. It was like they were waiting for something else.”
“They were waiting for us to leave,” Nora realized aloud, her tactical mind snapping the pieces together with horrifying speed. “If Sal cut the brake lines on the SUV, Silvio didn't need his men to shoot you. He just needed you to drive away in a panic. The brakes would fail at high speed, the armored plating would turn the car into a steel coffin, and it would look like another tragic Moretti family ‘accident.’”
“Just like Nico,” I whispered, nausea rolling through my stomach.
“Marco, check the SUV,” Luca ordered, his voice sharp and commanding. “Now.”
Marco didn't hesitate. He sprinted out into the rain. A minute later, he ran back inside, his face pale beneath the harsh glare of the garage lights.
“He’s right, Boss,” Marco confirmed grimly. “The primary brake fluid line has a microscopic incision. It’s bleeding fluid slowly. We’d have made it maybe two miles before total failure.”
Luca cursed violently in Italian, kicking a discarded wrench across the concrete floor. The sheer, calculated evil of his uncle’s plan was staggering. Silvio had orchestrated a massacre, perfectly designed to wipe out the remaining Moretti heirs without leaving a single fingerprint.
“We can’t take the SUV,” Marco said, unholstering his radio. “I’ll call the estate. Have them send a clean extraction team.”
“No,” Luca said sharply, raising a hand to stop him. “Do not call the estate.”
Marco paused. “Why not, Boss?”
“Because if Silvio planned to kill me tonight, he didn't just plan for this garage,” Luca explained, pacing the floor, his mind working furiously. “He’s a chess player. He knows I might survive the hit. He knows I might find out about the sabotage. He has a contingency plan.”
Luca stopped and looked at Nora. “If you were Silvio, and you just sent a hit squad to murder the head of the family... what is the very next thing you do to secure your power?”
Nora didn't blink. “You go after the only other person with a legitimate claim to the Moretti empire. You eliminate the final threat to the throne.”
I felt the blood drain completely from my face.
“Oh my god,” I gasped, covering my mouth with both hands. “Aunt Sofia.”
Luca’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic.
Aunt Sofia. Silvio’s younger sister. The gentle, quiet woman who had sat at the opposite end of the banquet table tonight. She lived in a private wing of the estate. If Luca and Nico were both dead, Sofia was the only blood relative left who could legally challenge Silvio for control of the syndicates.
“He’s going to kill her,” Luca realized, his voice trembling with a terrifying certainty. “He left the dinner party early tonight, before the confrontation with Vanessa escalated. He said he had a headache. He went back to the estate.”
“He’s there right now,” Nora said, pulling a spare magazine from her tactical vest and slamming it into her pistol. “With access to the entire house.”
“We have to get back,” Luca roared, grabbing his own weapon. “We have to warn her!”
“Boss, we don't have a car!” Marco yelled over the rising panic. “The SUV is rigged, and Silvio’s men’s cars are all standard sedans. They won't outrun the police response to the gunfire here, and they offer no protection if Silvio has men waiting for us at the gates!”
“I don't care if we have to steal a damn bicycle, Marco, we are leaving!” Luca shouted, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered by the thought of losing the woman who had acted as a mother to him.
I looked around the chaotic, blood-stained garage, desperately searching for a solution. My eyes landed on the back corner, covered by a massive, dusty gray tarp.
“Wait,” I said, running toward the corner. “My father... my father worked in a factory similar to this. He always said these chop shops kept an emergency vehicle ready for the mechanics if the cops ever raided the place.”
I grabbed the edge of the heavy tarp and pulled with all my strength.
Dust billowed into the air, revealing a sleek, matte-black, heavily modified muscle car. It looked like a 1969 Mustang, but the tires were massive, the suspension lowered, and the windows were tinted pitch-black.
Marco let out a low whistle of appreciation. “A runner car. Upgraded engine, reinforced chassis. Designed to outrun anything on the highway and take a hit doing it.”
“Keys,” Luca demanded, turning to Sal’s workbench.
Nora was already there, throwing tools and rags onto the floor until she found a set of heavy keys attached to a greasy lanyard. She tossed them to Marco.
“I’m driving,” Marco stated, a fierce grin touching his scarred lips.
“Get in!” Luca ordered.
The four of us piled into the muscle car. It smelled of old leather and gasoline. Marco jammed the key into the ignition, and the engine roared to life with a deafening, throaty growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
“Hold on,” Marco warned.
He slammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The heavy muscle car fishtailed violently on the slick concrete before catching traction and rocketing out of the garage, bursting into the rainy Chicago night.
We tore through the industrial district at terrifying speeds, the roar of the engine drowning out the rain. I sat in the back seat next to Nora, gripping the leather handle above the door, praying silently.
“Call the estate security desk,” Luca yelled to Marco from the passenger seat. “Tell them to lock down Aunt Sofia’s wing immediately! Tell them Silvio is hostile!”
Marco grabbed his radio and punched in the encrypted frequency for the mansion’s front gate.
“Security control, this is Marco,” he barked into the radio. “Code Red. Lock down the East Wing. Secure Sofia Moretti immediately. Acknowledge.”
Only static answered him.
“Control, respond!” Marco yelled again.
Nothing.
Marco looked at Luca, the terrifying reality setting in. “The frequency is jammed, Boss. Silvio has already taken over the security feed at the estate.”
“He’s locked us out,” Luca said, his jaw clenching so hard I thought his teeth would shatter. “He knows we survived the garage. He’s accelerating his timeline. He’s going to kill her before we can get there.”
“How far out are we?” Nora asked calmly, her military training keeping her focused amidst the chaos.
“Ten minutes if we don't hit traffic,” Marco said, weaving recklessly between two semi-trucks on the wet highway.
“We won't make it,” Luca whispered, the agonizing grief of failing another family member bleeding into his voice. “The estate is a fortress. If Silvio has the security codes, he can lock down the interior blast doors. It’ll take us twenty minutes just to breach the front hall.”
“There’s another way in,” I said suddenly, the memory surfacing through the panic.
Everyone in the car turned to look at me.
“What?” Luca asked, his eyes wide.
“The servant’s passage,” I explained rapidly, leaning forward between the front seats. “The mansion was built in the 1920s during Prohibition. There’s an old coal chute in the back gardens that connects directly to the sub-basement. The security system was never wired to it because it’s been sealed shut for fifty years.”
“Sealed with what?” Marco demanded.
“A rusted iron grate,” I said. “The groundskeeper showed it to me my first week on the job. He said it was too heavy to move.”
Marco patted the dashboard of the modified muscle car, a dark, lethal glint in his eyes.
“Good thing we brought a battering ram,” Marco smiled grimly.
Five minutes later, we tore through the affluent suburban streets surrounding the Moretti estate. Instead of heading for the massive wrought-iron front gates, Marco veered sharply onto a dark, unpaved service road that ran along the back perimeter of the property.
He killed the headlights, navigating purely by the moonlight filtering through the storm clouds.
We reached the high stone wall surrounding the gardens. Marco didn't slow down. He aimed the heavy muscle car directly at a section of the wall obscured by thick ivy.
“Brace yourselves!” Marco yelled.
I squeezed my eyes shut and curled into a ball.
CRASH.
The reinforced chassis of the muscle car shattered the old stone wall, bursting into the pristine gardens of the Moretti estate. Dirt and ivy flew across the windshield as Marco slammed on the brakes, sliding to a halt just fifty feet from the looming, dark silhouette of the mansion.
“There!” I pointed through the windshield to a small, stone alcove hidden behind a row of hydrangeas. “That’s the coal chute!”
Luca threw his door open before the car even stopped moving. “Nora, Marco, with me. Hannah, stay in the car!”
“I’m coming with you!” I argued, grabbing my door handle.
“No!” Luca roared, turning back to me, his eyes filled with a desperate, protective fury. “You are a civilian, Hannah! If Silvio’s men are in there, it’s going to be a slaughter. You stay here. That is an order!”
I froze, stunned by the sheer intensity of his command. He wasn't speaking to me as a boss; he was speaking to me as a man terrified of losing someone else he cared about.
I slowly nodded, letting go of the door handle.
Luca turned and sprinted toward the alcove, Marco and Nora right behind him. They reached the rusted iron grate. Together, the three of them heaved with all their might, tearing the old metal from its hinges with a screech of tearing rust.
They disappeared into the dark tunnel, swallowed by the belly of the mansion.
I sat alone in the idling muscle car, the rain drumming against the roof, my heart pounding in my ears. The silence of the gardens was deafening, the anticipation agonizing.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
No gunfire. No shouts. Just the pouring rain.
I couldn't stand it anymore. I reached for the door handle again, determined to follow them down the chute.
But as my fingers brushed the metal handle, a soft, deliberate tapping sounded on the passenger side window.
I screamed, recoiling in the seat.
I looked through the rain-streaked glass.
May you like
Standing in the dark garden, illuminated only by the faint glow of the dashboard lights, was Vanessa Bellini.
And she was pointing a silver handgun directly at my face.
