Chapter 8 - THE BOATHOUSE AMBUSH
At 6:55 PM, the storm outside had reached peak intensity. Snow battered the windows of the Moretti estate, and the wind howled like a dying beast.
In the quiet third-floor corridor, two of Vincent’s primary enforcers—heavy-set men named Marco and Paul—walked toward the servant’s quarters near the back stairs.
"Vincent wants it done quick," Marco said, pulling a pair of heavy leather gloves over his knuckles. "Drag her down to the boathouse, tie a weight to her ankles, and drop her through the ice hole. No blood, no noise."
Paul grunted in agreement, reaching for the door handle of Clare’s small room.
He pushed the door open.
The room was dark. A figure sat in the chair near the window, wrapped in a heavy maid’s apron, her head bowed as if weeping.
"Time to go, sweetheart," Paul sneered, stepping into the room with a thick plastic zip-tie in his hand.
He reached out and grabbed the shoulder of the figure in the chair.
Suddenly, a hand shot out from beneath the apron—a hand made of solid, crushing steel.
It was not Clare.
Adrien Moretti locked his hand around Paul’s throat, his eyes gleaming like hot coals in the darkness.
Before Paul could scream, Adrien used his massive upper-body strength to yank the guard forward, slamming his face directly into the heavy oak window frame with a sickening crunch. Paul crumpled to the floor, instantly unconscious.
Marco gasped, pulling a suppressed pistol from his jacket. "What the—"
From behind the door, Clare stepped out, swinging the heavy brass candleholder with every ounce of force in her body.
CLANG!
The heavy metal struck Marco squarely behind the ear. He staggered sideways, dropping his gun.
Adrien, pushing himself off the chair with his powerful arms, lunged forward. He slammed his shoulder into Marco’s chest, driving the two-hundred-pound guard against the wall and wrapping his arm around Marco’s neck in a lethal rear-naked chokehold.
Marco thrashed wildly, his boots kicking against the floor, but Adrien held on like a demon, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white.
"This is for my father," Adrien hissed into Marco's ear.
Ten seconds later, Marco went limp and slid down the wall, out cold.
Adrien dropped the guard and leaned heavily against the wall, breathing in deep, ragged gulps. His legs were shaking violently from the sudden impact, but he was standing. He was alive.
Clare quickly picked up Marco’s dropped pistol, checked the safety, and handed it to Adrien.
"You took down two guards," Clare whispered, her eyes shining with awe.
Adrien took the gun, ejecting the magazine to check the rounds before sliding it back into his suit jacket.
"They were sloppy," Adrien grunted, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "They thought I was an invalid."
He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 7:40 PM.
In twenty minutes, the entire Moretti council would gather in the grand ballroom downstairs to vote on Vincent’s ascension to Don.
Adrien reached into his pocket and pulled out the small black notebook Clare had kept, along with the original photograph of Arthur Bennett and the evidence folder detailing Silver Seal Logistics.
He placed them securely inside his inner coat pocket.
"It's time, Clare," Adrien said, extending his arm toward her.
May you like
Clare stepped beside him, looping her arm securely through his, letting him rest his heavy weight against her shoulder.
"Let's go take back your kingdom," she said.
