Chapter 6 - The Trap is Set
Three days later, the Marchetti estate hummed with a tense, terrifying energy that felt like the pressure before a hurricane.
Anton had spent forty-eight hours purging his household staff, running polygraphs, and interrogating every guard until the leak was found—a bought-off security technician who confessed to giving Petrov’s men the courtyard codes just before Donovan quietly escorted him out of the parish, never to be seen again.
Up in the master suite, Delia sat on the oversized velvet sofa, holding little Lily while the two boys played with wooden blocks on the rug at her feet.
The door opened, and Anton walked in, flanked by Donovan. He was dressed in a pristine black three-piece suit, his coat buttoned over his chest, looking every bit the ruthless syndicate king.
“It’s time,” Anton said.
Delia looked up, her heart skipping a beat. “You’re walking into his trap.”
“No, Delia,” Anton corrected, a cold, predatory smile playing on his lips. “We are walking into his trap. And we are going to spring it.”
The plan was simple, brutal, and terrifyingly risky. Anton had leaked false intelligence through double agents that he was flying the triplets out of New Orleans via a private airfield in the bayou, accompanied only by a skeleton crew of guards and a civilian nanny.
Viktor Petrov, eager to eliminate the Marchetti bloodline once and for all, was expected to launch an ambush at the abandoned sugar mill on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain.
“I’m coming with you,” Delia said, standing up and handing Lily to Mrs. Gable, who had rushed up to take the children to the secure bunker.
“Absolutely not,” Anton snapped, his eyes flashing with immediate rage. “You are staying in the panic room.”
“No, Anton, I am not,” Delia stepped right up to him, refusing to flinch under his overwhelming presence. “Your sons spoke my name. They are tied to me, and whether you like it or not, I am tied to them. If Petrov wants to finish what he started with your family, he has to go through me too.”
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Anton stared at her, breathing heavily. For a second, she thought he was going to bodily pick her up and lock her in the closet. Instead, a deep, fierce roar of respect broke through his defiance. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her flush against his chest, and kissed her hard, bruising lips.
“Donovan,” Anton growled without breaking eye contact with Delia. “Get her a bulletproof vest. The heaviest one we have.”
