Chapter 8 - EYES ON THE SCREEN
The vault interior was cold and lit by a harsh blue emergency glow.
Rows of weapon racks, communication arrays, and emergency supplies lined the concrete walls.
I set Leo down gently on a cot.
The little boy was trembling, his gray eyes wide with terror.
"You're safe here, buddy," Sal panted, checking the clip of his pistol.
I turned my attention to the wall-mounted security monitor.
There he was.
Luca.
Cornered in his private study on the third floor.
Three masked men in tactical gear had him boxed in against his mahogany desk.
One of them held a suppressed pistol leveled directly at Luca's chest.
"Drop the weapon, Moretti," the lead intruder growled through his mask.
On the screen, Luca didn't look scared.
He looked bored.
He slowly set his gun down on the edge of the desk.
"You're late," Luca said smoothly.
The lead gunman paused.
"What did you say?"
"I expected your bosses to send hitmen years ago," Luca replied, his voice echoing clearly through the audio feed in our vault.
"Hand over the boy, and we'll make your execution quick," the gunman sneered.
"You think I keep my heir in the house unprotected?" Luca asked with a dark smirk.
The gunman hesitated.
"What are you talking about?"
Luca raised his right hand and tapped his wristwatch twice.
"I'm talking about the trap."
Suddenly, the study doors burst open from the hallway.
Smoke grenades detonated inside the room with deafening pops.
Blind white smoke filled the monitor screen.
Gunfire erupted in rapid succession.
Men shouted.
Bodies hit the floor.
Then silence.
On the screen, the smoke slowly cleared.
Luca stood over three motionless figures in tactical gear.
He picked his gun up off the desk, reloaded it calmly, and adjusted his cuffs.
He looked directly up at the ceiling camera in the study.
Knowing we were watching.
He spoke into the lens.
"Sal. Emma. Bring the boy upstairs. The house is secure."
Sal let out a massive sigh of relief, wiping sweat from his forehead.
May you like
"That stubborn bastard," Sal muttered with a proud grin.
[CLIFFHANGER: As we stepped out of the panic room into the hallway, a cold blade pressed firmly against my throat from behind.]
