Chapter 6 - THE TRAP AT BELLAMY HOUSEI should have stayed home.
Everyone said so.
My mother.
Marco.
Rosa.
Even Luca, after overhearing enough adult conversation to understand that something dangerous was happening.
Damian said nothing.
That irritated me more than if he had ordered me not to go.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“I’ve discovered it’s ineffective.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“I’m adapting.”
“I’m going.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“And you’ll wear a vest.”
I blinked.
“A what?”
“Bulletproof.”
“Absolutely not.”
Thirty minutes later, I was wearing a bulletproof vest.
Damian looked insufferably satisfied.
Bellamy House had been closed since the attack.
Police tape still hung near one entrance.
We arrived after midnight.
No staff.
No music.
No chandeliers blazing.
Only emergency lights glowing through the enormous ballroom where I had nearly died.
Stepping inside made my scar ache.
Damian noticed.
“We can leave.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
That was partly true.
Marco’s team spread through the building.
Victor’s instructions had been simple.
Bring the archive.
Come to Bellamy House.
Midnight.
No police.
We brought a fake drive.
The real evidence had already been copied and sent to an attorney, a federal investigator, and three secure servers.
Damian had learned something from my father.
Never keep truth in one place.
At 12:07, the ballroom speakers crackled.
Victor’s voice filled the room.
“My favorite nephew.”
Damian stared upward.
“Come out.”
“You always were impatient.”
“Twenty-six years is patient enough.”
A spotlight clicked on.
Victor stood on the second-floor balcony.
Silver hair.
Tailored suit.
Perfect posture.
He looked more like a retired senator than a murderer.
Beside him stood Vivian Moretti.
And beside Vivian stood a man holding my mother.
My heart stopped.
“Mom!”
“I’m okay!” she shouted.
The gun at her back suggested otherwise.
Damian grabbed my arm before I could move.
“How?”
I whispered.
Vivian smiled.
“Your mother isn’t nearly as well guarded when she visits church.”
My rage burned through fear.
“You touch her—”
“She dies if you move.”
Victor leaned on the railing.
“Samuel’s archive.”
Damian held up the drive.
“Release Patricia first.”
Victor laughed.
“You’re negotiating?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“You always needed people to believe you were smarter than they were.”
Victor’s smile disappeared.
Damian continued.
“My father believed it. Michael believed it. Moretti believed it.”
Vivian’s eyes snapped toward Victor.
Interesting.
Damian saw it too.
“Anthony Moretti thought Victor was his partner,” Damian said. “Didn’t he, Vivian?”
“Stop talking.”
“But Victor intended to betray him.”
“Shut up.”
Vivian looked at Victor.
“Is that true?”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“We discussed this.”
“Did you plan to betray Anthony?”
Damian smiled without humor.
“Of course he did.”
Victor raised a gun.
“Enough.”
There.
The fracture.
For decades, Victor had survived by turning enemies against each other.
Damian was reversing it.
I watched Vivian.
Grief still lived inside her rage.
Twenty-six years of it.
“Your husband died because Victor needed him blamed for Michael’s murder,” I said.
Vivian looked at me.
“You know nothing.”
“My father recorded Michael.”
Her expression changed.
“He knew Victor was moving money with Anthony.”
Victor snapped, “She’s lying.”
“No.”
I stepped forward.
“He also left records showing Victor transferred five million into my father’s name to frame him.”
Vivian looked at Victor.
“You told me Samuel took payment from Carlo.”
Victor said nothing.
That was enough.
Vivian’s face transformed.
“You lied.”
“You needed motivation.”
“My husband died.”
“Your husband was weak.”
The room went still.
Even Damian looked surprised.
Victor realized his mistake too late.
Vivian raised her gun.
Victor fired first.
The shot exploded.
Vivian spun and collapsed.
Everything erupted.
Marco’s men moved.
The gunman holding Mom turned toward the balcony.
I ran.
I didn’t think.
Apparently I had a terrible habit of running toward danger.
I slammed into the man holding my mother.
His gun fired into the ceiling.
Mom bit his wrist.
He screamed.
Damian tackled him.
Marco returned fire toward the balcony.
Victor disappeared.
“Emma!”
“I’m okay!”
Vivian lay bleeding near the stairs.
I crawled toward her.
She looked at me.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“You saved his boy.”
It was such a strange question.
“Because he was a child.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Anthony used to say our daughter was the only innocent thing we ever made.”
I pressed my hands against her wound.
“Elena?”
Her face tightened.
“Where is Elena?”
Vivian laughed weakly.
“You still don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Elena wasn’t helping me.”
My blood chilled.
“She was helping Victor.”
Damian heard.
He turned.
“What?”
Vivian coughed.
“She found Samuel first. She told Victor.”
The old university records.
Elena had accessed my information.
“She found my father?”
“Yes.”
“Did she kill him?”
Vivian closed her eyes.
“No.”
“Who did?”
Her gaze lifted toward the balcony.
“Victor.”
Rage tore through me.
My father had not simply died after being discovered.
He had been murdered.
Damian’s hand settled on my shoulder.
I barely felt it.
“Where’s Elena?” he demanded.
Vivian whispered, “With your son.”
The world stopped.
Damian’s face emptied.
“What?”
Vivian smiled sadly.
“You left him at home.”
Damian was already running.
Marco shouted into his radio.
No response.
Signal jammers.
Damian sprinted toward the doors.
I followed.
“Emma, stay!”
“No.”
We reached the SUVs.
The drive back seemed to take years.
Damian called the estate repeatedly.
Nothing.
His hands clenched around his phone until his knuckles turned white.
“He’ll be okay,” I said.
“You don’t know that.”
“No.”
I touched his arm.
“But Luca is smart.”
That was all I had.
When we reached the estate, the front gates stood open.
Two guards were unconscious but alive.
Inside, furniture had been overturned.
Rosa was sitting on the floor with blood on her forehead.
“Where is he?” Damian demanded.
“They took him.”
His entire body stopped.
Rosa pointed toward the table.
An envelope.
Damian tore it open.
One sentence.
BRING EMMA CARTER TO THE OLD HARBOR WAREHOUSE OR YOUR SON DIES AT SUNRISE.
“No,” Damian said.
The word was barely audible.
I read the note.
“They want me.”
“You’re not going.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No.”
“Damian—”
“No!”
It was the first time he had shouted at me.
The entire room froze.
He stepped closer.
“I will not trade your life for my son’s.”
“If we don’t go, Luca dies.”
“I said no.”
“And I’m saying you don’t get to decide that for me.”
His face broke.
Not anger.
Fear.
“I already watched one person I loved die because of this family.”
My breath caught.
One person I loved.
He realized what he had said.
Neither of us acknowledged it.
I took his hand.
“We’re getting Luca back.”
His fingers closed around mine.
“And you.”
“And me.”
“Both.”
“Both.”
His forehead touched mine.
For exactly one second.
Then Damian became cold again.
Focused.
Dangerous.
“Marco.”
“Yes.”
“Call Randall.”
I stared at him.
“The detective?”
“We’re done handling this ourselves.”
That surprised me.
Damian saw it.
“My father spent his life believing power meant never asking the law for help.”
He looked toward the note.
“He buried one son because of it.”
Then at me.
“I’m not burying mine.”
Detective Randall arrived with federal agents twenty minutes later.
Apparently the archive contained enough evidence to justify an operation immediately.
Maps appeared.
Plans were made.
The old harbor warehouse had belonged to Victor for decades.
We knew where Luca was likely being held.
Then Randall looked at me.
“You’re not actually going inside.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“The note specifically requires me.”
“We can fake—”
“They’ll know.”
Damian spoke quietly.
“She goes in.”
Everyone looked at him.
He hated the words.
I could hear it.
“But she won’t be alone.”
At 4:47 a.m., we reached the harbor.
The sun would rise in less than an hour.
And somewhere inside a rusting warehouse, a six-year-old boy was waiting for his father.
Waiting for me.
I stepped out of the van.
Damian caught my hand.
“Emma.”
I looked at him.
“When this is over…”
He stopped.
“What?”
His eyes held mine.
“When this is over, I need to tell you something.”
I managed a smile.
“Then you’d better make sure we survive.”
His answer was immediate.
May you like
“We will.”
Together, we walked toward the warehouse.
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