Chapter 6 - THE TRAITOR STANDING BEHIND HIS CHAIR
I ripped the IV from my arm.
A sharp sting followed by a trickle of blood didn’t slow me down.
I threw the heavy silk blankets aside and forced myself out of the bed.
My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor.
My knees buckled immediately, the lingering weakness from the poison making my muscles feel like jelly, but I caught the edge of the nightstand to steady myself.
I had to warn Luca.
I stumbled toward the heavy oak door of the master suite.
I pressed my ear against the wood.
Silence.
I reached for the brass handle and turned it.
It was locked from the outside.
Panic seized my chest. I rattled the knob, banging my fists against the thick wood.
“Help!” I screamed, not caring who heard me. “Let me out!”
No one answered. The guards Luca had promised were either deaf, or they weren’t his guards anymore.
I spun around, scanning the massive bedroom for another way out.
The French doors leading to the private balcony.
I rushed over, unlocked the latch, and pushed them open.
The freezing Chicago night air hit my face like a physical blow.
I leaned over the stone balustrade, looking down at the courtyard below.
The guest house was situated fifty yards away, illuminated by a single porch light.
Through the large bay window of the guest house, I could see two figures moving.
Luca and Marcus.
They were standing in the living room.
I couldn't hear their voices, but I could see Luca pointing a finger at a figure sitting in a chair—Vanessa.
Then, my blood ran completely cold.
Marcus was standing directly behind Luca.
And he was slowly drawing a silenced pistol from his shoulder holster.
“No!” I screamed into the wind.
But I was too far away. The wind swallowed my voice completely.
Inside the guest house, Marcus raised the weapon, pointing it directly at the back of Luca’s head.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.
But the gunshot never came.
Instead, the glass of the bay window shattered outward in a spectacular explosion of shards.
Someone from the darkness of the courtyard had fired a high-powered rifle directly into the guest house.
I opened my eyes just in time to see Marcus dive to the floor, blood blooming on his shoulder.
Luca, reacting with the lightning speed that kept him alive in the underworld, didn’t freeze. He spun, drew his own weapon, and fired blindly toward the shattered window, providing cover fire as he dragged himself behind a heavy oak desk.
Vanessa screamed, throwing herself onto the floor beside Marcus.
The courtyard erupted into chaos.
Floodlights snapped on.
Sirens wailed from the perimeter gates.
Men dressed in black tactical gear poured over the high stone walls of the estate.
They weren’t police.
They were Romano’s men.
Victor Romano hadn't just sent Vanessa to drain the bank accounts. He had sent an army to finish the Moretti bloodline once and for all.
And Marcus had disabled the estate’s primary defenses to let them in.
I backed away from the balcony, terrified.
If they were breaching the house, they would come for me. They would come for Michael’s unborn heir.
I looked around the master suite frantically.
There was no place to hide a pregnant woman.
Then, I remembered something Michael had told me late one night, holding me in the cramped maid’s quarters.
“This house was built during Prohibition, Anna. My grandfather was paranoid. He built hollow spaces into the bones of the mansion.”
I ran to the massive, walk-in closet.
I pushed past Luca’s rows of tailored suits, reaching the back wall lined with custom cedar shoe racks.
I dropped to my knees, feeling along the baseboard.
My fingers brushed against a small, hidden metal latch.
I pulled it.
The entire section of the shoe rack clicked and swung outward, revealing a narrow, pitch-black space just large enough for one person.
A panic room.
I squeezed myself inside and pulled the heavy wooden panel shut behind me.
Total darkness enveloped me.
The air was stale and smelled of dust.
I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, wrapping my arms protectively around my stomach.
Seconds later, the heavy oak door of the master suite burst open.
Heavy combat boots pounded across the hardwood floor.
“Check the bathroom! Check the balcony!” a rough voice barked in Italian.
“She’s gone! The bed is empty, but the IV is pulled!” another answered.
Footsteps approached the closet.
I held my breath, clamping my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of my own terrified heartbeat.
The closet hangers rattled as the men pushed through the suits.
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“Tear this room apart,” the first voice ordered. “Romano wants the girl and the baby dead before sunrise.”
TITLE: THE BLOOD ON THE MARBLE FLOOR
