Part 8
The next day passed in a blur of silent preparation.
The estate felt different.
The guards were gone from their usual posts, hidden away in the shadows, waiting for the trap to spring.
Enzo had spent the afternoon inspecting the perimeter himself.
By eight o'clock in the evening, the house was completely dark, save for a few lights meant to mimic a normal schedule.
Elena stood in the master bedroom, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
She was wearing a dark, heavy coat over a simple black outfit.
Her face was pale, but her eyes held a steady, burning fire.
The bedroom door opened, and Enzo walked in.
He was dressed entirely in black, a silent shadow of retribution.
He walked up behind her, looking at her reflection in the glass.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice firm.
“You don't have to be out there, Elena,” Enzo reminded her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. “You can stay in the safe room downstairs. My men can handle this alone.”
Elena turned around to face him, breaking his grip gently.
“No,” she said, looking directly into his dark eyes. “I need to see it. I need to see him realize that he lost. If I stay hidden, I’m still just the girl waiting to see what the men decide.”
Enzo stared at her for a long moment.
The coldness in his eyes seemed to melt slightly, replaced by a deep, profound respect.
“Then you will stand beside me,” he said.
They walked down the stairs together, navigating the dark hallways of the mansion until they reached the conservatory overlooking the western garden.
The glass walls gave them a perfect view of the dark lawn and the stone pavilion.
The clock ticked closer to nine-twenty.
Outside, a soft drizzle began to fall, turning the stone paths slick and shiny under the distant estate lights.
Suddenly, a shadow moved near the western gate.
Then another.
Three men slipped through the iron bars, their movements hurried and clumsy compared to Enzo's professional security.
In the lead was her uncle.
He looked older, more haggard than Elena remembered, his coat soaked from the rain, his eyes wild with desperation.
He scanned the dark garden, heading straight for the pavilion.
Elena felt a sudden tightening in her chest, a phantom pain mimicking the old scars on her back.
But then she felt Enzo’s hand slide into hers.
His grip was solid. Unyielding.
“Watch,” he whispered in her ear.
As her uncle stepped into the center of the pavilion, the floodlights suddenly snapped on, blindingly bright.
The entire garden was instantly illuminated like a stage.
From the shadows of the trees, a dozen armed DeLuca guards emerged, their weapons raised and aimed with military precision.
Her uncle froze, his face turning instantly pale under the white light as he realized the truth.
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He hadn't come to rescue an asset.
He had walked directly into his own slaughterhouse.
