Chapter 8 - The Gathering Storm
Night fell over Chicago like a thick velvet curtain, bringing with it a driving autumn rain that lashed against the reinforced glass of the estate windows.
Down in the lower lounge, Teresa had retired early, worn out by an afternoon of reminiscing. I sat in the adjacent sitting room with a medical chart on my lap, though my eyes kept drifting to the heavy grandfather clock in the hall. It was past midnight. Luca had been gone for nearly seven hours.
Outside, the rain muted the usual sounds of the estate, but a strange prickle of unease tightened at the base of my neck.
Suddenly, the hallway lights flickered once, twice, before plunging into darkness. The emergency backup generators hummed to life three seconds later, bathing the corridors in a dim, amber glow.
Instantly, my training took over. I rose, slipping the small emergency radio Luca had given me from my pocket. "Marco?" I whispered into the receiver.
Static hissed back. Nothing.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I turned toward Teresa’s bedroom door, intending to wake her, when the heavy front doors downstairs banged open. The sound of rapid, heavy footsteps echoed up the marble staircase, accompanied by the distinct metallic click of a weapon chambering a round.
I didn't panic. Fear was a luxury I had never been able to afford. I slipped into Teresa’s room, locked the deadbolt, and moved to the side of her bed.
"Teresa," I whispered, gently touching her shoulder.
She woke immediately, her sharp eyes instantly adjusting to the amber gloom. She saw my face and understood without a word. "They’re inside?"
"Someone is," I said, helping her into her slippers and reaching for the panic lever hidden behind the vintage tapestry.
Before I could pull it, a heavy thud struck the bedroom door.
"Emily! Open the door!"
It was Luca’s voice, but it was strained, raw, and laced with an edge of breathlessness I had never heard before.
I rushed forward, checked through the brass peephole, and saw Luca leaning against the frame, his tie torn, his jacket darkened with fresh rain—and blood. Marco was beside him, gun drawn, scanning the empty hallway.
I unlocked the bolt and pulled the door open. Luca stumbled in slightly, catching himself against the dresser.
"Luca!" Teresa gasped, rising from the bed.
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"I’m fine, Ma. It’s not mine," he rasped, though his left hand was pressed firmly against his side, his fingers glistening with crimson. "Vance didn't want a council. He wanted an execution."
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