Chapter 3 - The Traitor's Hand
Lorenzo moved with a speed that defied his heavy build.
Before Matteo could level the barrel, Lorenzo grabbed Matteo’s wrist, twisting it inward with enough pressure to crack the bone. Matteo let out a strangled groan as the gun clattered onto the rug. In the same fluid motion, Lorenzo slammed Matteo against the doorframe, his left hand clamping around the lieutenant’s throat like an iron vice.
The two guards in the hallway drew their weapons, but Lorenzo didn't even look at them.
“Shoot me,” Lorenzo growled toward the doorway, his thumb pressing into Matteo’s carotid artery. “Shoot me and see if either of you leaves this estate alive. Every loyal soldier on this property is surrounding this building right now.”
The guards hesitated, their eyes darting to Matteo, whose face was turning a deep, mottled purple.
“Tell me the whole truth, Matteo,” Lorenzo whispered into his lieutenant's ear, his voice deadly calm. “And maybe I let you die quickly.”
Matteo clawed at Lorenzo’s iron grip, his feet kicking uselessly against the floorboards. “Moretti... paid... the clinic,” Matteo gasped out, air escaping his lungs in tiny, ragged bursts. “He... he wanted... the baby. To hold over you. I... I intercepted her. I took Isabella...”
“Why hide her from me?” Lorenzo demanded, squeezing tighter. “Why keep her prisoner?”
“Because... she... loved... you!” Matteo choked out, tears bursting from his bloodshot eyes. “And as long as she thought you were dead... she stayed. She looked at me... like I was her savior. If I gave her back to you... I was just... the lieutenant again.”
Lorenzo stared at the man he had trusted with his life for fifteen years.
It wasn't a master plan of political strategy. It wasn't an elaborate mafia coup. It was the pathetic, festering envy of a second-in-command who wanted the king’s life, the king’s bride, and the king’s legacy, but lacked the courage to take them in the open.
“You sick, pathetic coward,” Lorenzo breathed.
With a brutal shove, Lorenzo threw Matteo across the room. Matteo crashed against the wooden dresser, shattering a ceramic pitcher before collapsing onto the floor, wheezing and clutching his neck.
Lorenzo turned to the two guards standing frozen in the hall.
“Disarm him,” Lorenzo commanded. “Bind his hands with steel wire. Put him in the sub-basement beneath the wine cellar. If he speaks, cut his tongue out.”
The guards didn't hesitate. They stepped over Matteo, pinning his arms behind his back as the lieutenant coughed up blood. Matteo didn't fight back. He looked up at Lorenzo through swollen eyes, a bitter, broken smile crossing his lips.
“It’s too late, Lorenzo,” Matteo rasped as the guards dragged him toward the stairs. “Moretti knows... he knows the child is alive. He’s coming for the estate tonight. Why do you think I had the guards rotated?”
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Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed. He looked out the nursery window.
Through the pouring rain, far down at the main entrance of the estate, the heavy iron gates were standing wide open.
