Chapter 8 - The Night the Villa BurnedThe first gunshots sounded thirty seconds after Victor disappeared upstairs.
Lena had heard gunfire in movies.
This was nothing like it.
Real gunshots were sharper, uglier, terrifyingly immediate.
Marco locked the safe-room door.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Lena.”
“I am not sitting.”
She stood before the security monitors.
Several screens were black.
Others showed guards moving through corridors.
Men in dark clothing had entered through the eastern gardens.
“How did they get through?”
“Someone disabled the sensors.”
“Someone inside?”
Marco’s expression said yes.
Betrayal.
Victor had warned her constantly about enemies.
Lena had assumed they were outside.
She should have known better.
“Who has access?”
“Many people.”
“Who knew about the safe room?”
“Very few.”
Another screen died.
Marco swore.
“They are moving toward us.”
Lena’s stomach dropped.
“They know.”
“Yes.”
Marco pulled a second handgun from a locked compartment.
He checked it and handed it to Lena.
She stared.
“You taught me hand-to-hand.”
“Tonight you get an accelerated curriculum.”
“I have never fired one.”
“Point. Front sight. Squeeze, do not jerk. Do not put your finger on the trigger until you are prepared to shoot.”
She accepted it.
The weapon felt impossibly heavy.
“What if I hit someone?”
“That is generally the objective.”
“Marco.”
His expression softened by one degree.
“If the door opens and the person entering is not me, Victor, or one of the three guards you recognize, you defend yourself.”
“Can they open it?”
“They should not be able to.”
Should.
A terrible word.
The gunfire grew louder.
Lena watched the screens.
Victor appeared on one.
He moved through a hallway with two guards, pistol in hand.
Lena had never seen him like this.
Not a wealthy businessman.
Not a controlling husband.
Not even the don commanding men at dinner.
This Victor moved like violence was a language his body remembered fluently.
A man came around the corner.
Victor fired.
Lena jerked.
The attacker fell.
No hesitation.
No drama.
Victor kept moving.
The monster.
Her monster.
The phrase returned and Lena hated it.
Then one camera showed Signora Russo running.
A man pursued her.
“Marco!”
He looked.
Before either could react, Signora Russo turned, pulled a gun from beneath her dress, and shot the attacker.
Lena stared.
“Signora Russo carries a gun?”
“Everyone carries a gun.”
“I do not.”
“You do now.”
Somehow that almost made her laugh.
A heavy impact struck the safe-room door.
Both froze.
Another.
Someone was outside.
Marco raised his weapon.
“Behind the console.”
Lena obeyed this time.
A voice came through the intercom.
“Marco.”
Victor.
Marco exhaled.
He verified the camera.
Victor stood outside, blood along one side of his face.
Marco opened the door.
Victor entered and immediately looked for Lena.
She came from behind the console.
His entire body changed when he saw her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He crossed the room and checked anyway.
Hands over her shoulders.
Her arms.
Her face.
“I am fine.”
Blood ran from a cut near his temple.
“You are not.”
“Not mine.”
“You are bleeding.”
“Mostly not mine.”
That was not reassuring.
“Who attacked us?”
“Bianchi’s people and someone from inside.”
“Who?”
“We are finding out.”
Marco asked something in Italian.
Victor answered.
Then Lena caught a word.
Russo.
She looked up.
“What about Signora Russo?”
Victor went silent.
“What?”
“Her son is missing.”
“I did not know she had a son.”
“He works security.”
“Was he involved?”
“We do not know.”
A radio message came through.
Victor listened.
Then his face transformed.
Cold.
Utterly cold.
He spoke one name.
“Paolo.”
Marco reacted instantly.
“Who is Paolo?” Lena asked.
“Signora Russo’s son.”
Footsteps approached.
The safe-room door opened.
Signora Russo stood outside.
Beside her was a young man Lena had seen many times at the gate.
Paolo.
He was holding a gun against his own mother’s ribs.
Everything happened too fast.
“Drop your weapons,” Paolo said.
His English was heavily accented.
Marco aimed.
Victor did not.
Paolo pressed the gun harder against Signora Russo.
“Drop them.”
Victor slowly lowered his weapon.
Marco stared at him.
“Do it.”
Marco obeyed.
Paolo smiled.
“Very good.”
Lena’s hand tightened around the gun hidden behind the console.
Paolo had not noticed it.
“You betrayed me,” Victor said.
“You betrayed all of us first.”
“How?”
“You marry an American girl and suddenly everything changes. You refuse Conte. You refuse Bianchi. You become soft.”
Victor laughed.
It was a terrible sound.
“You attacked my home because you think I am soft?”
“I attacked your weakness.”
Paolo looked at Lena.
Victor shifted slightly.
Between them.
“Do not.”
Paolo smiled.
“There. Exactly.”
Lena understood.
She was not merely collateral.
She was the point.
Paolo wanted Victor to prove Lena had become a weakness.
“Bianchi wants the girl,” Paolo said. “Alive.”
“Why?”
“Ask her mother.”
Victor’s voice dropped.
“Where is Emily?”
Paolo’s eyes flickered.
He knew.
Lena’s heart hammered.
“Where is she?”
Paolo looked at her.
“Closer than you think.”
Victor moved half an inch.
Paolo pushed the gun into Signora Russo.
“Do not.”
The older woman looked remarkably calm.
Then she spoke in Italian.
Lena understood only part.
Do it.
Victor shook his head.
Signora Russo said it again.
Paolo shouted.
His attention broke.
Marco moved.
So did Lena.
She raised the gun.
Front sight.
Squeeze.
The explosion shocked her entire body.
Paolo screamed.
Her bullet struck his shoulder.
His gun fired into the wall.
Marco tackled him.
Victor grabbed Signora Russo and pulled her clear.
Within seconds Paolo was on the floor, Marco’s knee against his spine.
Lena still held the gun.
Her arms shook violently.
Victor approached slowly.
“Lena.”
She could not move.
“I shot him.”
“Yes.”
“I shot someone.”
“Yes.”
Victor gently removed the gun from her hand.
“He was going to kill her.”
“Yes.”
“I shot him.”
Then the shock broke.
Lena started shaking.
Victor caught her.
She did not fight.
Her face pressed against his chest.
He held her while her entire body trembled.
“You did exactly what you needed to do.”
She could smell smoke.
Blood.
Victor’s cologne.
“I could have killed him.”
“You did not.”
“But I could have.”
“Yes.”
His honesty, again.
Always.
After the remaining attackers were subdued, dawn found the villa scarred.
Broken windows.
Blood on marble.
Bullet holes in antique walls.
A fire had damaged part of the east wing, but the main structure remained intact.
Lena sat in the kitchen wrapped in a blanket.
Lucia arrived shortly after sunrise.
She crossed the room, hugged Lena without asking, then slapped Marco’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince.
“You let her shoot someone?”
“He was holding my mother at gunpoint,” Marco replied.
Lucia looked at Signora Russo.
“You okay?”
The older woman nodded.
Her composure finally cracked when she looked toward the room where Paolo was being guarded.
“My son.”
Lena had not considered that side.
Paolo was a traitor.
He had almost gotten them killed.
He was also Signora Russo’s child.
The woman who had supervised Lena’s clothing, meals, lessons, and every aspect of her strange new life sat at the table and quietly began to cry.
Lena moved beside her.
Signora Russo shook her head.
“Do not.”
“Do not what?”
“Comfort me. You nearly died because of him.”
“That was his choice. Not yours.”
Signora Russo looked at her.
Lena recognized the terrible guilt.
She had seen it in Robert.
Parents carrying the sins of their children.
Children carrying the sins of their parents.
This world passed guilt through generations like inheritance.
Lena took her hand.
Signora Russo let her.
Victor watched from the doorway.
Hours later, Paolo talked.
Lena was not present for the interrogation.
She did not ask how Victor obtained the information.
Perhaps that made her complicit.
Perhaps survival demanded compartments.
Paolo revealed that Bianchi had been searching for Emily for someone else.
A consortium of old De Santis loyalists.
Emily possessed records.
Account numbers.
Names.
Evidence capable of exposing decades of political corruption linking judges, businessmen, police officials, and criminal organizations across Italy and the United States.
“She kept evidence?” Lena asked.
Victor nodded.
“Apparently she copied financial files before the Naples operation.”
“And people have hunted her ever since.”
“Yes.”
“Why send me the letter now?”
“Because your marriage changed the balance.”
“How?”
“Being my wife gives you protection she did not expect.”
Lena studied him.
“Or she thinks she can use you.”
“Also possible.”
“And Bianchi wants me because?”
“To bring Emily out.”
Lena went cold.
“I am bait.”
“Yes.”
Victor leaned against his desk.
“You will not be used.”
“What if that is the only way to find her?”
“No.”
“You did not even think.”
“I thought weeks ago.”
“We learned this yesterday.”
“I have thought about you being bait since Alessandro approached you.”
Lena stared.
“You really are paranoid.”
“It is why I am alive.”
She paced.
“If Mom is hiding because these people will kill her, she may never contact us again.”
“She already contacted you.”
“And almost got us all killed.”
“Exactly.”
“What are you saying?”
“That whoever delivered the letter was tracked or compromised.”
Lena stopped.
“The driver.”
“Gone.”
“Dead?”
“We do not know.”
Victor looked exhausted.
The cut on his temple had been stitched.
His shirt had been changed, but Lena knew the blood beneath his fingernails had not all been his.
“Sleep,” she said.
Victor raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You have been awake all night.”
“So have you.”
“I am not running a criminal empire before breakfast.”
“You would be surprised how flexible the hours are.”
She almost smiled.
Then she remembered everything.
Naples.
Eight-year-old Lena.
Victor working for De Santis.
“You still helped hunt us.”
The humor vanished.
“Yes.”
“I do not know what to do with that.”
“I know.”
“Part of me wants to leave this room and never speak to you again.”
Victor’s face remained controlled.
“And the other part?”
“Hates that you saved my life tonight.”
He looked away.
“And that I was terrified when I saw you bleeding.”
Silence.
Lena’s voice dropped.
“I do not understand what is happening to me.”
Victor approached.
Slowly.
Giving her time to stop him.
He lifted a hand.
Waited.
Lena did not move away.
His fingers touched her cheek.
“You do not have to understand today.”
“That sounds unusually reasonable.”
“I was shot at all night. Perhaps I am concussed.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
Victor smiled.
Then the smile vanished, replaced by something deeper.
He leaned in.
Stopped.
Their lips were inches apart.
The wedding kiss had been a claim.
This was a question.
For the first time, Victor Moretti waited for permission.
Lena could have moved back.
She knew that.
Instead she closed the distance.
The kiss was brief.
Soft.
Entirely her choice.
When she pulled away, Victor looked more stunned than she had ever seen him.
“Do not make a big deal out of that.”
“I would not dream of it.”
“You are smiling.”
“I am Italian. We smile.”
“You barely smile.”
“I am experiencing personal growth.”
She rolled her eyes.
But later, alone in the shower, Lena touched her lips and understood something terrifying.
The walls of her prison had not disappeared.
The gates were still locked.
The guards still stood outside.
Victor was still dangerous.
May you like
But for the first time since arriving in Rome, the thing keeping Lena awake was no longer the fear that she might never escape.
It was the fear that one day, given an open gate, she might choose to stay.
