Chapter 3 - SHADOWS AT THE GATE
The golden light of the late afternoon faded into a deep, bruised purple over the rolling hills of the estate. Inside the private study, the air was thick with the scent of old paper, rich tobacco, and the metallic tang of polished steel.
Marco stood across from Lorenzo’s desk, holding a black leather tablet. “We ran the background check again, boss. She was telling the truth. Elena Rossi was registered at a women's shelter in Bergamo three years ago under her maiden name. Vance has had a quiet trace out on her for eighteen months. He’s been using local muscle from the Brescia docks to check transit hubs.”
Lorenzo swiped a gold lighter across his cigar, the flame illuminating his sharp jawline and the faint, jagged scar that ran from his left collarbone up to his ear—a souvenir from his early days taking over the syndicate.
“Has Vance made contact with anyone in Solferino?” Lorenzo asked, puffing a thin stream of gray smoke toward the ceiling.
“Not directly,” Marco replied. “But two hours ago, one of our outer perimeter cameras picked up a dark Audi sedan parked on the gravel road near the north vineyard. The license plate tracks back to a rental agency at the Milan airport, booked under a shell company affiliated with the Valenti family.”
Lorenzo set the lighter down with a sharp clack. “They found her.”
“It appears so,” Marco said quietly. “They don't know she’s working inside the main house yet. They’re likely watching the estate's staff shuttle buses that run back and forth to the village.”
Lorenzo leaned back in his high-backed leather chair. On the floor beside his desk, a small wooden crate lined with old wool blankets housed the golden puppy. The dog had been washed, fed a bowl of warm broth and minced beef, and was currently chewing contentedly on an old leather belt Lorenzo had sacrificed for the cause.
“Where is the child?” Lorenzo asked.
“In the housekeeper’s quarters with her mother,” Marco answered. “The staff is quiet. Nobody knows about Vance.”
“Keep it that way,” Lorenzo commanded. “Increase the guards at the north gate to four men. Full tactical gear, non-uniform. If that Audi moves toward the main driveway, disable the vehicle and bring the occupants to the wine cellars beneath the old barn. No noise. I don't want gunshots disturbing the courtyard.”
“Understood, boss.” Marco hesitated, his eyes flicking down to the puppy in the crate. “And the dog?”
Lorenzo glared at his lieutenant. “The dog stays in the study until its stomach settles. It has parasites.”
“Of course, sir,” Marco said, suppressing a tiny smirk as he bowed his head and exited the room.
Left alone, Lorenzo stood up and walked to the French doors leading out to the balcony. The estate was vast—over two hundred acres of prime vineyards, ancient olive trees, and high stone walls topped with razor wire and infrared sensors. It was an impenetrable fortress, built to keep the world out and keep Lorenzo Duca safe from the dozens of men who wanted him dead.
Yet, a three-year-old girl had walked straight through its heart.
A quiet knock at the inner door broke his thoughts. Lorenzo didn't turn around. “Yes?”
The door creaked open, but no adult voice answered. Instead, a light, rhythmic tapping sound echoed across the hardwood floor—the sound of tiny, barefoot steps.
Lorenzo turned.
Mia stood in the doorway, wearing a pair of yellow pajamas printed with faded daisies. Her hair was damp from a bath, smelling faintly of lavender soap, and she was dragging a stuffed velvet rabbit with one missing ear behind her on the floor.
She didn't stop at the entrance. She walked straight past the high leather armchairs, past the mahogany cabinets filled with historic firearms, and stopped right next to the wooden crate.
She dropped to her knees, reaching her small hand over the edge to pat the puppy's head. The dog instantly let out a muffled bark of joy, tail thumping frantically against the wooden slats.
“He's clean,” Mia announced, looking up at Lorenzo.
“He had a bath,” Lorenzo said, folding his arms. “Why are you not in bed?”
“Mama is crying,” Mia said plainly.
Lorenzo’s posture stiffened. “Why is she crying?”
“She's looking out the window at the dark,” the girl explained, scratching the puppy behind its floppy ears. “She thinks the bad men are coming.”
Lorenzo walked over, towering above the little girl. He looked down at her small, fragile frame. In his world, fear was a constant, suffocating currency. Everyone feared something—pain, death, poverty, him. But this child looked up at him with dark, clear eyes that held no terror whatsoever.
“Are they?” Mia asked.
“Are who?”
“The bad men.”
Lorenzo crouched down, his expensive wool trousers pressing against the floorboards, putting himself eye-level with the three-year-old. He reached out, his large, calloused hand—a hand that had pulled triggers and broken bones—gently brushing a damp dark curl away from her forehead.
“No,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly register that sounded like an oath forged in iron. “No bad men are coming in here.”
“Because of you?” she asked.
“Because of me.”
Mia nodded once, perfectly satisfied with the answer. She stood up, leaving the velvet rabbit inside the crate beside the puppy.
“His name is Barnaby,” she declared, turning toward the door.
“That is a terrible name for a dog,” Lorenzo noted flatly.
“He likes it,” Mia called over her shoulder as she padded toward the hallway. “Goodnight, Mr. Alone.”
Lorenzo stayed crouched on the floor long after the door clicked shut. He looked at the velvet rabbit resting against the golden fur of the sleeping puppy.
Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his encrypted phone, and dialed Marco once more.
May you like
“Sir?”
“Change of plans regarding the Audi at the north gate,” Lorenzo ordered, his eyes turning cold enough to freeze fire. “Do not wait for them to approach the driveway. Take six men. Surround the car now. I want the driver alive, and I want Julian Vance’s private address in Milan by midnight.”
