Chapter 5 - The Night Before the Trap
Thursday evening arrived, wrapping the Duca estate in a heavy, suffocating blanket of fog that rolled in from the Long Island Sound.
Downstairs in the grand dining hall, a lavish celebration dinner was underway. Matteo Duca and Isabella Rossi were drinking expensive champagne, laughing loudly with three corrupted board members who had agreed to vote in favor of the emergency leadership transfer the following morning.
Upstairs, the hallways were dark and quiet.
Clare sat on the edge of her bed in the staff wing, holding Mia close against her side. Mia was coloring in a book, her small tongue sticking out in concentration as she filled in a picture of a castle.
"Mommy?" Mia asked softly, looking up.
"Yes, sweetie?"
"Is Uncle Lorenzo going to be okay tomorrow?"
Clare squeezed her daughter’s shoulder gently. "Why do you ask that, baby?"
"Because," Mia whispered, leaning close to her mother's ear. "He told me last night that when the sun comes up, he's going to stand up and be the king again."
Clare’s heart skipped a beat. She looked into her daughter's clear brown eyes, marvelling at how much courage existed in such a tiny body. "Yes, Mia. He's going to be just fine."
Suddenly, the handle of Clara’s bedroom door rattled.
Clare immediately shoved the encrypted phone into her apron pocket and stood up, placing herself between the door and Mia.
The door pushed open. Damian Cole stepped inside.
He wasn't smiling. He held a thick manila folder in his hand, and his dark eyes were cold, calculated, and dangerous.
"Clara," Damian said, stepping into the small room and shutting the door behind him. "We need to talk."
"Mr. Cole, it's late," Clara said, keeping her voice as steady as possible. "Mia is getting ready for bed."
"This won't take long," Damian said, opening the folder. He pulled out a stack of paper prints—surveillance footage screenshots taken from the estate's rear stairwell.
He held up a black-and-white printout. It clearly showed a tall figure carrying Mia down the dark servant stairs at four in the morning two nights ago.
Clare’s breath hitched in her throat. Her blood ran cold.
"Our night-vision cameras caught this," Damian said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "The man carrying your daughter wasn't wearing a wheelchair, Clara. He was walking on two legs. And he came straight out of Lorenzo Duca's bedroom."
Clare stared at the photo. Her mind raced frantically, searching for an excuse, a lie, anything to buy time.
"I... I don't know who that is," Clara lied, her voice trembling. "It was dark—"
"Don't lie to me!" Damian barked, taking a menacing step forward. He grabbed Clara by the upper arm, his grip like a steel vise. "Lorenzo has been playing us. He’s been faking it the whole damn time, and you and your kid have been helping him!"
"Mommy!" Mia cried out, dropping her crayons and rushing to grab Damian's leg. "Let go of my mommy!"
Damian shoved the little girl away carelessly. Mia tumbled back onto the soft rug with a cry of surprise.
Seeing her daughter shoved triggered something primal inside Clara. The fear that had held her captive for three years instantly vanished, replaced by a wave of white-hot, protective fury.
Clare reached into her apron pocket, whipped out the encrypted black phone, and smashed the side button once with her thumb.
Damian saw the phone and realized instantly what she had done. "You little bitch—"
He reached for his sidearm, pulling his suppressed pistol from his holster.
Before he could raise the weapon, the bedroom window exploded inward in a shower of shattered glass and dark rain.
A heavily armed tactical operative dressed in black gear swung through the window on a rappel line, crashing directly into Damian. The impact sent Damian flying across the room, his gun clattering across the floorboards.
A second later, the bedroom door was kicked off its hinges with a thunderous bang.
Raphael Bruno stepped through the ruined doorway, holding a silenced submachine gun aimed directly at Damian's chest, followed by two armed tactical guards.
"Move a muscle," Raphael said coldly, "and I'll paint this wall with your brain."
Damian lay groaning on the floor, pinned down by the operative, his eyes wide with utter shock as he realized he had been completely outmaneuvered.
Raphael turned to Clara, offering a respectful nod. "Ms. Bennett. Mr. Duca sent us. Are you and the child harmed?"
Clare pulled a weeping Mia into her arms, hugging her tightly against her chest. "We're okay. We're okay."
Raphael walked over, picked up Damian's gun from the floor, and looked down at the captured security chief.
"Take him to the basement," Raphael commanded his men. "Put him in zip-ties and gag him. Mr. Duca will deal with him after the meeting tomorrow morning."
The guards dragged a struggling, cursing Damian out of the room.
Raphael turned back to Clara, his expression serious. "Ms. Bennett, tomorrow morning at nine thirty, Matteo and Isabella will gather the board in the main ballroom. Mr. Duca wants you and Mia safely tucked away in his private study behind the reinforced doors until it's over."
Clare wiped her tears, standing tall, holding Mia close.
"No," Clara said firmly, looking Raphael dead in the eye. "I want to be in that ballroom when he tears them down."
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Raphael stared at her for a moment, then a slow, admiring grin spread across his tough face.
"You really are something else, Ms. Bennett," Raphael chuckled. "Pack your daughter's things. Tomorrow morning, New York is going to watch a dead man rise."
