Chapter 6 - A Midnight Intruding
As twilight deepened over Graybridge, turning the falling snow into a swirling sheet of silver, the security perimeter of the Duca estate was breached.
On the third-floor monitoring station, Bruno stared at the security screens. Three unmarked black SUVs had turned off the coastal highway, gliding silently past the wrought-iron gates without tripping the automated transponders.
“Boss,” Bruno murmured into his encrypted earpiece, connecting directly to the master bedroom. “We have uninvited guests. Four men. Professional gear. Thermal scopes. They’re moving through the service tunnel toward the east wing.”
“Julian’s cleanup crew,” Lorenzo’s voice came back calm, steady, and chillingly cold. “He realized Alistair hasn’t checked in. He’s sending men to finish what the poison started.”
“Shall I deploy the perimeter defense?”
“No,” Lorenzo instructed. “Let them in. Lead them straight to the second-floor library. I want them to think the house is sleeping.”
Downstairs in the sprawling east wing, four armed operatives in tactical black gear slipped through the service elevator doors like ghosts. Their leader, a scarred veteran named Vance who had worked black ops in Eastern Europe before joining Julian’s payroll, gestured with two fingers.
“Target is the master suite on the third floor,” Vance whispered into his radio comms. “Duca is bedridden and unresponsive. Clean and quiet. Make it look like a stroke.”
They moved up the grand mahogany staircase, their boots silent against the thick oriental runners. They reached the heavy double doors of the master bedroom. Vance raised his silenced pistol, signaling his men to flank the frame.
He kicked the door open with a brutal slam, bursting into the room with his weapon raised.
The room was completely dark except for the dying embers of the fireplace.
The bed was empty.
Vance froze. His tactical instincts screamed a fraction of a second too late.
“Looking for me, gentlemen?” a voice echoed from the shadows near the bookshelf.
Vance whipped around, raising his pistol, but before he could acquire a target, a heavy steel fireplace poker struck the weapon from his hand with bone-crushing force. Bruno stepped out of the darkness like an avalanche, his massive frame dwarfing the mercenaries.
Before the other three operatives could react, the side doors opened, flooding the room with brilliant white light.
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Standing in the center of the room, fully dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that hung slightly loose on his recovering frame, was Lorenzo Duca. In his right hand, he held a heavy silver-plated walking cane. In his eyes burned the absolute, unyielding fire of a king reclaiming his throne.
“Tell Julian,” Lorenzo said softly, stepping toward the paralyzed mercenaries, “that his father sends his regards.”
