Chapter 5 - Shadows over the Estate
The high-caliber sniper round tore through the heavy glass, punching a hole through the leather back of Santino’s executive chair and embedding itself into the mahogany desk with a sickening thud.
Emily didn't think. Instinct took over. She threw her body over Santino, shoving his upper torso down toward the floor as a second shot shattered the wooden frame right above their heads.
"Get down!" she screamed, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders as they both tumbled off the chair onto the thick velvet carpet.
Outside the door, heavy boots pounded against the floorboards. "Boss!" Rafe’s voice roared as he kicked the double doors open, his heavy handgun already raised. He swept the room, took in the shattered balcony glass, and instantly lunged forward to position his massive body between the balcony and the floor where Santino and Emily lay.
"Sniper on the ridge!" Rafe shouted into his radio headset. "Team Two, perimeter lock down! Now! Move!"
Santino was already pulling himself up using the base of the heavy desk, his face pale but completely composed despite the chaos. "Emily, are you hit?"
Emily was lying on her side, breathing heavily, glass shards sparkling in her dark hair. "I... I don't think so. Are you okay?"
"I'm unhurt thanks to you," Santino said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He reached out a hand and grabbed her forearm, pulling her closer to the safety of the desk wall. "That was a thermal scope shot from at least eight hundred yards out. Whoever hired that shooter knew exactly where my desk was situated."
Two more guards rushed into the room, carbines raised, securing the doorway and window angles.
Enzo Baron ran in shortly after, his face sheet-white, holding a pair of glasses in his shaking hand. "Santino! Good God! Are you alright? We heard the glass!"
Santino didn't look at Enzo. He kept his eyes on the shattered balcony doors where rain was now pouring into the room, soaking the carpet.
"Enzo," Santino said softly. "Who knew I was holding a private meeting in this room tonight?"
Enzo swallowed hard, looking around at the armed guards and the blood-red stain where the bullet had hit the mahogany. "Only... only the family directors, Santino. Victoria, Carlo, Marco... and myself."
"Check the security feeds for the north ridge," Santino ordered Rafe. "Find the shooter. If he's alive, I want him in the basement. If he's dead, find out who paid his advance."
"Understood, boss," Rafe grunted, signaling two guards to lift Santino back into a secure transport chair.
"Miss Taylor," Santino said, looking back at her as she stood up, brushing glass off her knees. "You are staying at the estate tonight. I am not letting you drive home in the dark after what just happened."
"Mr. Ferrara, I can take care of myself—"
"This was not an offer," Santino interrupted firmly. "You are now directly in the crosshairs because you are sitting next to me. Rafe, put her in the west wing suite—the one with the reinforced doors."
Twenty minutes later, Emily was escorted down a long, dimly lit corridor in the guest wing. The room was luxurious—a king-sized bed, heavy silk curtains, and a private balcony—but to Emily, it felt like a gilded cage.
She locked the heavy wooden door behind her, leaned her back against it, and took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
She walked over to the small writing desk near the bed and pulled the metallic flash drive out of her dress pocket. Santino had given it to her right before the shot was fired.
Plugging it into her encrypted laptop, she waited as the security protocol initialized. The screen flashed bright green, requesting a decryption key.
She typed in the date of her brother’s disappearance: 06-12.
The drive unlocked instantly.
Files filled the screen—hundreds of pages of financial transfers, wiretap logs, and security camera stills. Emily scrolled rapidly through the folders until she hit a sub-file labeled Project Genesis.
Inside was a series of scanned documents bearing the signature of an offshore holding firm. But as Emily zoomed in on the signature line of the primary shareholder, her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't Marco Vane's signature. It wasn't Uncle Carlo's.
It was the elegant, unmistakable hand-script of Victoria Ferrara.
Below Victoria's signature was a list of real estate properties purchased in the past six months. One address stood out in bold red text: Warehouse 17, Old Port District.
That was the exact location where Thomas had sent his last encrypted location ping to Emily’s phone three months ago.
Suddenly, a quiet knock echoed against her bedroom door.
Emily slammed her laptop shut. She slid the flash drive into her pocket and walked slowly toward the door. "Who is it?"
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"It's Victoria, dear," a smooth, calm voice replied from the hallway. "I brought you some dry clothes and a hot cup of chamomile tea. I thought you might need it after such a terrible shock."
Emily stood frozen on the other side of the door, her hand hovering inches above the brass lock.
