Chapter 5 - When the Lights Go Out
The corridor outside was a labyrinth of shadows, illuminated only by the intermittent flashes of lightning from the windows. The air was thick with the sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fresh blood.
Mia moved through the darkness like a ghost, her movements silent now that she was alert, her awkwardness completely vanishing the moment the threat became active. Matteo followed close behind, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the darkness.
"We need to get to the main grand staircase," Matteo whispered. "If we can cut through the dining hall, we can reach the secondary exit behind the kitchens."
"The dining hall has three large windows facing the western path," Mia whispered back, her voice barely a breath against the sound of the rain. "If the Ferrettis came through the blind spot, they’ll have a sniper stationed on the garden pavilion covering those windows. We take the service stairs."
"The service stairs are narrow," Matteo protested. "If we get cornered—"
"If we get cornered, I control the space," Mia said.
They reached the end of the gallery just as another flash of lightning lit up the grand hall below. Through the iron balustrade, Mia looked down into the atrium. The sight made her stomach tighten.
Three of Lorenzo DeLuca’s personal guards lay motionless on the marble floor. Standing over them were four men in tactical gear, their weapons raised, moving with the precision of military operatives. But it wasn't the intruders that caught Mia’s attention. It was the man standing next to them, pointing toward the West Wing with a flashlight.
It was Carlo.
"He's directing them," Matteo hissed, his knuckles turning white around the grip of his gun. "The bastard sold us out."
"He didn't just sell you out; he sold the entire layout," Mia noted, her photographic memory instantly calculating the attackers' trajectory. "They aren't searching the house room by room. They know exactly which wing your father went to, and they know exactly where we are."
Suddenly, one of the tactical operatives stopped and looked up toward the gallery. The beam of his high-powered flashlight swept across the iron railing, missing Mia and Matteo by mere inches.
"Move," Mia commanded softly.
They turned into the narrow service corridor, the darkness enveloping them completely. But as they reached the heavy steel door that led to the service stairs, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed from the stairwell below.
Someone was coming up.
Mia shoved Matteo into a shallow alcove meant for linen storage. "Stay down and don't fire unless they get past me. The muzzle flash will give away your position."
"Mia—"
Before he could finish her name, the door burst open. A large man in a tactical vest lunged into the corridor, his weapon raised.
Mia didn't try to outshoot him. Instead, she took a deliberate step forward, her boot intentionally catching on the raised lip of the metal threshold. She went down hard, falling directly into the man’s shins.
The operative, expecting a standard tactical engagement, was completely caught off guard by the sudden, undignified heap of limbs crashing into his lower body. He tripped over her, his momentum carrying him forward as he lost his balance.
As he fell over her, Mia’s hands—perfectly steady, perfectly controlled—shot upward. She grabbed the barrel of his rifle, twisting it sharply to disarm him while simultaneously driving her elbow into his throat with a sickening crunch. The man choked, his weapon clattering to the floor as he went limp.
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Mia rolled over, grabbed the fallen rifle, and stood up in one fluid motion, using the wall to stabilize her treacherous feet. She looked down at the unconscious operative, then at Matteo, who was staring at her from the alcove with a mixture of awe and sheer disbelief.
"Tactical clumsiness," Mia said, slinging the rifle over her shoulder. "They never train for it in the military."
