Chapter 6 - The Fortress of the De Lucas
The De Luca estate sat behind twenty-foot wrought-iron gates in an exclusive, heavily guarded enclave overlooking the Hudson River.
When the convoy of black SUVs swept through the gates, the sprawling stone mansion looked less like a home and more like a medieval fortress transplanted into modern New York. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter with tactical gear and night-vision binoculars. Floodlights swept the manicured lawns, cutting through the fading storm.
Inside, however, the house was a labyrinth of echoing marble, priceless oil paintings, and suffocating silence.
Christian led them through a grand foyer where a sweeping double staircase curved upward toward the private quarters. A terrified-looking elderly housekeeper rushed forward, wringing her hands.
"Mr. De Luca! Thank God! We heard about the—"
"Get Clara upstairs to her suite," Christian instructed briskly, handing his daughter to the housekeeper. "Have Dr. Vance check her over for shock. And lock down the east wing."
"Papa," Clara signed, pulling away slightly from the housekeeper and looking back at Emma with wide, pleading eyes. Don't let her go.
Christian looked at Emma, who stood near the grand piano, looking completely out of place among the million-dollar antiques.
"She wants you with her," Christian observed.
"I need to go home," Emma said, though her voice lacked conviction. She knew she couldn't go back to her apartment in Queens. If these killers knew she was at Bellamy’s, her apartment would be the first place they staked out.
"Your apartment is already compromised," Christian said, reading her thoughts with terrifying accuracy. "My scouts report a suspicious sedan parked down the block from your building three minutes after we left the bakery. You cannot go home, Miss Brooks. Not yet."
Emma swallowed hard, her chest tightening with frustration and fear. "So what? You’re making me a prisoner in your mansion?"
"I am keeping you safe," Christian corrected calmly. "And in exchange... I need your help."
Emma crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "My help? Mr. De Luca, I bake pastries. I don't do wet work."
"I don't need you to shoot a gun," Christian said, turning away to walk toward a massive mahogany desk in his private study just off the foyer. He gestured for her to follow. "I need you to translate."
Emma hesitated, then stepped into the study. It was lined with bookshelves, leather armchairs, and a bank of high-definition security monitors glowing with live feeds of the estate's perimeter.
Christian sat down behind the desk and pulled out a digital tablet, tapping the screen to bring up a recorded security file.
"This is from the nursery hallway earlier tonight," Christian said, turning the tablet toward her.
Emma leaned over the desk to look. The video showed Clara playing with her building blocks while her uncle, Marco, stood behind her, talking on his phone. There was no audio on the security feed.
"Marco thinks I can't read lips," Christian said, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched. "He thought because Clara was playing quietly, he was safe. But look at Clara's hands in the background. She was watching his reflection in the glass door while he spoke."
Emma squinted at the screen.
In the reflection of the glass balcony door, Clara’s small hands were moving, signing to herself out of habit while her uncle spoke in hushed tones to an unknown caller.
"She signs when she’s stressed," Emma whispered, realization dawning on her.
"Yes," Christian said grimly. "She signed words to herself that she picked up from his conversation. But my security team doesn't know ASL fluently enough to catch the nuance. They missed it. You didn't."
Emma looked closely at the tiny, grainy reflection on the tablet. She slowed the playback down, her fingers tracing the motions in the air unconsciously.
The dock... warehouse four... midnight... give them the girl...
Emma looked up at Christian, her face pale. "She saw him giving away the meeting place. She knew he was lying to you."
Christian stood up slowly, the air around him turning into a gathering storm.
"Warehouse Four," Christian repeated, a terrifying, humorless smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Marco thought he was clever. He thought he could sell my daughter to the Russos and walk away with a seat at their table."
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He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from Emma. For the first time, she noticed the subtle exhaustion in his eyes—the invisible toll of a widower father carrying the weight of an empire while trying to protect a little girl who couldn't hear the wolves howling outside her door.
"Miss Brooks," Christian said softly. "You saved my daughter's life tonight. And now, you have given me the key to end this war once and for all. Will you help me finish it?"
