Chapter 5 - The Sterling Trap
The estate plunged into darkness as the backup generators sputtered and died. Emergency red runner lights flickered along the baseboards, casting long, bloody shadows down the marble corridors.
I didn't take the elevator. I led Dante and four of his elite guards through the narrow service stairs behind the commercial kitchens. The air grew damp, smelling of ancient mortar, cold earth, and chilled oak.
“They think they have tactical superiority because they cut the main junction box,” I whispered, moving quickly despite the throbbing in my shoulder. “They don't know the cellar isn't a straight corridor. It’s a nineteenth-century brick labyrinth. If they take the central aisle, they’ll bottleneck near Vault C.”
Dante moved behind me like a panther, his footsteps completely silent on the wet concrete. “And what’s in Vault C?”
“The reinforced iron fire door from the 1920s,” I said. “It was designed to seal off grease fires from the coal furnaces. The override lever is on the western wall, behind the rack of 1982 Petrus.”
Through the darkness ahead, the distinct, rhythmic clatter of tactical boots echoed off the vaulted brick ceiling. Flashlight beams cut through the gloom, illuminating swirling clouds of dust.
“Julian!” a harsh voice hissed in the dark. “Check the interrogation rooms! Move fast, the boss said kill anyone wearing gray!”
They were hunting me. Julian’s men had orders to eradicate the witness who had recognized the scent of the poison.
“Take your positions,” Dante commanded his men in a low whisper.
The Moretti guards melted into the side alcoves, disappearing behind towering oak casks. Dante caught my arm, pulling me back into the shadow of a massive stone pillar. His chest was pressed against my back, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist to hold me steady. The heat of his body was an intoxicating contrast to the icy subterranean air.
“Stay behind me,” he breathed against my neck, his Sig Sauer leveled at the corridor.
“If you shoot from here, you’ll cause a ricochet off the granite,” I murmured back, leaning slightly into his solid frame to point down the hall. “Wait until the lead man passes the iron grate. There’s a three-inch drop. He’ll look down to check his footing.”
Dante let out a low, dark chuckle that reverberated against my spine. “Brilliant, ruthless little creature, aren't you?”
Three men in black tactical gear rounded the corner, their weapon-mounted lights sweeping the walls. The point man stepped forward—and his boot slipped on the uneven transition of the floor just as I predicted. He lowered his weapon for a split second to regain his balance.
*Pfft. Pfft.*
Dante fired twice through an integral suppressor. The lead mercenary collapsed instantly, his flashlight rolling across the stone floor.
Before the other two could raise their rifles, Dante’s men opened fire from the flanks. The crossfire was brutal, surgical, and over in less than four seconds. Three bodies lay motionless in the corridor.
“Clear,” Mikhail reported from the shadows.
“They sent amateurs,” Dante said coldly, stepping over the fallen men without breaking his stride. “Julian’s desperation is showing.”
We reached the heavy iron door of Vault C. Inside, tied securely to a rusted steel chair beneath a single hanging work light, sat Julian Sterling. His face was swollen, his designer tuxedo torn to shreds, and his nose bleeding profusely.
When he saw Dante emerge from the shadows, his eyes widened with pure, unadulterated terror.
Then his eyes shifted to me.
“You...” Julian choked out, spitting blood onto the floor. “You fat little bitch. You ruined everything! My father will burn this entire empire to ash for this!”
Dante walked slowly toward the chair. He didn't raise his gun. He simply stood over Julian, his shadow swallowing the battered heir whole.
“Your father is currently trapped in international waters with three of my destroyers escorting his yacht toward a private dock in Palermo,” Dante said smoothly. “The Sterling empire fell thirty minutes ago, Julian. You just haven't received the memo yet.”
Dante turned slightly, looking at me over his shoulder.
May you like
“Clara,” he commanded, his voice dark and silk-smooth. “Come here.”
***
