Chapter 3 - Lockdown
“Breached by who?” The words ripped from my throat as I matched his frantic stride down the hallway.
“The Moretti family doesn't like losing their distribution docks,” Victor said curtly, his boots hitting the marble floor like hammer blows. He pulled a matte-black semi-automatic from a hidden panel in the corridor wall, checked the chamber with a sickening *clack*, and tucked it into the small of his back. “They traced the seizure back to my signature. They aren't coming to negotiate.”
“Finn is upstairs asleep!”
Victor stopped so abruptly that I nearly crashed into his broad back. He spun around, gripping both my shoulders with fingers of steel. There was no mockery in his eyes now, no venomous questions about who was waiting for me. There was only raw, desperate focus.
“Listen to me, Harper,” he said, his face inches from mine. “You think I’m a monster? Fine. You think I’m a coward? Believe whatever you want. But right now, you are the only person on this earth I trust with my son’s life. Do you understand me?”
The breath hitched in my chest. *The only person on this earth.*
“I understand,” I breathed.
“Marcus has the armored SUV in the underground garage. Take Finn. Take the private service tunnel behind the wine cellar. You go straight to the safehouse in Lake Geneva. You do not stop for red lights, you do not check your phone, and you do not let him let go of your hand.”
“What about you?”
The question came out before I could censor it. It sounded too personal, too frantic.
Victor’s mouth softened for a fraction of a second—a fleeting ghost of an emotion that didn't belong to a mafia boss. “I stay here and teach them what happens when you bring war to my front door.”
“Victor, no—”
A deafening explosion rocked the foundation of the house.
The crystal chandeliers overhead shuddered, raining tiny shards of glass onto the Persian rugs. Down at the front entrance, automatic gunfire erupted—a violent, rhythmic rattle that sent cold terror directly into my veins.
“Go!” Victor roared, shoving me toward the stairs. “Get him!”
I didn't look back. I sprinted up the spiraling staircase, taking the steps two at a time as more explosions rumbled through the mansion. When I burst into Finn’s room, he wasn't crying.
He was already under the desk, curled into a tight, trembling ball, his hands over his ears.
“Harper!” he shrieked, his voice breaking.
“I’m here, baby, I’m right here!” I slid across the hardwood, grabbing his little body and pulling him into my chest. He was hyperventilating, his nails digging into the wool of my sweater. “Anchor. Remember the anchor? Look at me, Finn!”
He looked up, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks.
“We’re going on an adventure,” I lied, keeping my voice terrifyingly calm while gunfire tore through the foyer downstairs. “A secret mission. Just you, me, and Marcus. But you have to be the bravest boy in the world. Can you do that for me?”
Finn nodded, his small teeth chattering. “Is Dad fighting the bad things?”
“Yes,” I whispered, kissing his forehead as another burst of gunfire shook the walls. “Dad is keeping us safe. Now wrap your arms around my neck and do not let go.”
I scooped him up, threw his winter coat over his pajamas, and bolted for the service corridor.
As I reached the hidden door behind the master library, I glanced over the mezzanine railing.
Down in the foyer, smoke billowed through shattered stained-glass windows. Masked men in tactical gear were pouring through the splintered double doors.
And standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, illuminated by the flashes of gunfire, was Victor Rossi.
He wasn't running. He wasn't hiding. He was firing with lethal, terrifying precision, moving like a shadow through the smoke, a solitary wall of iron between the monsters and the boy in my arms.
For a heartbeat, our eyes locked through the haze.
Victor gave one sharp, definitive nod. *Run.*
May you like
I pulled the panel, slipped into the dark stairwell, and slammed the heavy iron door behind us.
***