Chapter 8 - The Ghost Returns
The peace shattered on a crisp Thursday morning three weeks later.
Vincent had left early for a high-level summit at the downtown shipping yards, accompanied by Marcus and his primary detail. Gemma was alone in the vast kitchen, pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee, when the private security intercom near the back entrance buzzed sharply.
She froze, her hand gripping the ceramic mug. The staff had strict instructions not to let anyone up without authorization.
She walked cautiously toward the mudroom, peering through the high-resolution security monitor mounted by the side door.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her blood turned to ice water.
Standing on the front landing, battered, bruised, with a dirty bandage plastered across his forehead and a wild, desperate look in his eyes, was Trent.
How? her mind screamed. How did he find this place?
She watched the monitor in sheer horror as Trent slammed his fist against the reinforced glass door, screaming obscenely into the intercom camera.
"Gemma! I know you're in there! Open this damn door!" Trent’s voice rasped through the speaker, ugly and unhinged. "You think some rich lunatic can just make me disappear?! You think I'm going to let you steal my life?!"
Panic seized her chest, paralyzing her limbs. She wanted to run, to hide upstairs, to call Marcus, but her phone was sitting on the kitchen island out of reach.
Trent backed up a step, pulled a heavy metal wrench out from inside his jacket, and smashed it directly against the reinforced glass panel with a deafening crack.
Clang! Clang!
The glass spiderwebbed under the repeated blows. He was going to break through.
Gemma bolted down the hallway toward the kitchen, grabbed her phone with a shaking hand, and dialed Marcus’s direct emergency number. It rang once. Twice. Three times straight to voicemail.
No, no, no! Pick up! she sobbed, hitting redial.
A loud, shattering crash echoed from the back entrance. Trent had broken through the glass. Heavy, erratic footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor of the mudroom, heading straight for the kitchen.
Gemma backed away until her spine hit the kitchen island, her eyes wide with primal terror.
"Gemma!" Trent screamed, bursting around the corner into the kitchen, his eyes bloodshot, clutching the heavy wrench like a weapon. "You think you're safe here? You think you belong in a place like this?! I made you! You're nothing without me!"
He lunged forward, his hand reaching out to grab her hair. Gemma closed her eyes, bracing for the impact, screaming out in absolute despair.
Bang.
The sharp, thunderous crack of a gunshot echoed through the cavernous kitchen.
Trent stopped dead in his tracks. The wrench slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor. He looked down in utter disbelief at the small, smoking hole that had suddenly appeared in the wall just two inches from his ear, before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed heavily onto the floor, unconscious from sheer shock.
Gemma opened her eyes, shaking uncontrollably.
Standing at the opposite end of the kitchen, holding a sleek black firearm with absolute, terrifying calm, was Vincent Moretti.
Behind him stood Marcus and four armed guards, their weapons drawn and ready.
Vincent lowered the gun slowly, his face carved from cold, unyielding granite. He walked past the unconscious body of Trent on the floor, ignoring him entirely, and stopped right in front of Gemma.
May you like
He reached out, cupping her trembling face in his warm, steady hands.
"I told you," Vincent whispered, his voice dark with a lethal promise, "you are safe here. Nobody touches you."
