Chapter 7 - THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE
The silence in the ruined cabin was deafening, broken only by the sound of rain lashing against the tin roof and my own ragged breathing. The cold steel of Carlo’s gun dug into my temple. I could smell the gunpowder on his hands. From behind the overturned table, Luca slowly stood up.
He didn't look like a polished CEO or a wealthy socialite. He looked like the ruthless, terrifying boss of the Chicago syndicate. His dark suit was ruined, his face cut from the splintered door, but his eyes burned with a lethal, absolute focus. “Let her go, Carlo,” Luca said. His voice wasn’t a shout. It was a low, vibrating promise of death. “Slide the gun across the floor, Luca,” Carlo demanded, tightening his grip on my neck, cutting off my air. “Kick it over. Now.”
Luca looked at me. For a split second, the fierce mafia boss melted away, and I saw a man who had lost his wife, almost lost his mother, and refused to lose anyone else. Luca slowly bent down. He placed his custom pistol on the dusty floorboards and kicked it. It spun across the room, stopping inches from Carlo’s boots. “Now, let her go,” Luca said, raising his empty hands.
Carlo laughed. It was a harsh, victorious sound. “You really have gone soft, boss,” Carlo sneered. “Fifteen years ago, you would have shot through the girl to get to me. You’re pathetic.” Answer One, Open Two. Carlo had the upper hand, but he was arrogant. He thought he had won. But how did Luca find us so quickly in the pitch-black woods? I felt something hard and beaded pressing into my thigh, hidden deep inside my apron pocket. Teresa’s heavy silver rosary. Before I had left the dining room, when Teresa had squeezed my hand, she had slipped something into my pocket. I thought it was just her rosary for comfort. But Teresa Moretti was the matriarch of a mafia family. She didn't carry trinkets. She carried insurance.
“You talk too much, Carlo,” Luca said smoothly, taking a slow step forward. “Stop right there!” Carlo barked, cocking the hammer of the gun against my head. I felt the ropes around my wrists finally give way. The rusted nail had done its job. My hands were free behind my back, but I kept them still. “I’m taking the girl, and I’m walking out to the highway,” Carlo announced. “If your men follow me, she dies.”
“Carlo,” I whispered, my voice rasping. “Shut up,” he hissed. “I said,” I repeated, my voice growing stronger, “my name is Hannah.” I didn't wait for his reaction. I dropped all my weight instantly, slipping out of his chokehold. As I fell, I brought my elbow back with all the strength I possessed, driving it directly into Carlo’s groin.
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Carlo gasped, doubling over in agony. In that split second, Luca launched himself across the room. He didn’t go for his gun. He slammed into Carlo like a freight train, driving the traitor through the rotting wooden wall of the cabin. They crashed out into the mud in a tangle of limbs. I scrambled away, gasping for air, and picked up Luca’s dropped pistol. My hands shook, but I aimed it at the broken hole in the wall.
Outside, the fight was brutal but brief. Luca was fighting for his family; Carlo was fighting for greed. Luca delivered a crushing blow to Carlo’s jaw, knocking the older man out cold in the mud. Luca stood up, chest heaving, rain washing the blood from his face. He walked back into the cabin and took the gun gently from my trembling hands. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice thick with concern. “I’m okay,” I sobbed, the adrenaline finally crashing. Suddenly, the sound of approaching helicopters thundered overhead, rattling the cabin walls. Spotlights cut through the rain, illuminating the woods in blinding white. I looked at Luca, relieved. “Your men are here.” Luca looked up at the helicopters, his expression hardening into absolute dread. “Those aren't my men, Hannah,” Luca said grimly. “Those are federal agents.”
