Chapter 4: Countdown
1141 Words
The garage felt like it was closing in.
Burnt rubber, damp concrete, and panic. That’s all Clara could smell. It scraped her throat.
Leo was gone.
The thought hit her like a punch to the chest. Her baby brother. The kid who couldn’t go 24 hours without his treatment. And now he was with them.
Five years of training herself to stay calm cracked right down the middle. The Valenti walls suddenly felt too close.
"Where did they take him?"
Her voice didn’t waver. No stutter. No tears. Just something low and sharp that made the doctor take a step back.
She grabbed Julian’s jacket. Wet. Her knuckles went white.
"Tell me. Now."
Julian wasn’t looking at her hands. He was watching her face. The shift. The fear was gone and something else had taken its place.
"Dante. Seal the garage. Nobody in, nobody out." His voice cut through the noise. He covered her hand with his own and pried her fingers off his lapels, but he didn’t let go. "Doctor. Timeline."
"Twenty... twenty-four minutes, Don Valenti." The doctor’s hands shook as he pulled up the tablet. "A tactical team hit New Hope with EMPs. Took out auxiliary power. They bypassed Leo’s wing like they had the blueprints. And they left this."
He turned the screen. A still frame, seconds before the cameras died.
A black wolf’s head spray-painted across the ICU doors.
Marcone.
Clara’s brain started running too fast.
She’d fed a low-level Marcone guy the cathedral location to make a scene. A distraction so she could get into Julian’s house.
But this wasn’t a distraction. EMPs. Biometric bypass. That took inside help.
Unless the leak wasn’t only her.
"They’re going to kill him," she whispered. Without his filtration therapy, Leo had maybe 48 hours. "They want leverage. Against the Rossi loyalists. Or against me."
"Or against me," Julian said. His grip tightened on her wrist and he pulled her out of the SUV. Rain dripped from his hair onto her face. His eyes were furious.
"Dante. Trace the EMP. Military-grade leaves a footprint. Find who sold it in the last 72 hours."
"On it," Dante said. He shot Clara one last look before running for the command center.
Julian didn’t talk to anyone else. He took Clara by the arm and dragged her to the private elevator. Not like a husband. But like someone who didn’t trust her not to run. The doors shut. The noise cut out. Just the two of them and the quiet hum of the lift going up.
The moment they hit the penthouse, he shoved her forward.
Her dress tore against the marble coffee table.
She didn’t cry. She stood, spun, and pulled the stiletto from her thigh. Smooth. Practiced. Blade low, aimed at his throat.
Julian didn’t blink. He shrugged off his soaked jacket and tossed it aside. The leather straps of his holster showed underneath.
"So we’re done pretending," he said. Almost a smile. "No more scared Clara? No more tears?"
"If Leo dies because you couldn’t keep him safe, I will carve you open," she said. Every word was steady and cold. "I don’t care about your empire. I don’t care about your truce. Give me a car. Give me a g*n. Get out of my way."
He stopped two feet from the blade.
"Incompetence? Marcone didn’t pull off a coordinated hit and a medical extraction in one night by luck. Someone gave them the coordinates. Someone inside. Or someone in my bed."
He stepped closer. Rain and ozone.
"Let’s talk about the man in the church, Clara. Brainstem shot. Military technique. Rossi’s old shadow guard. Your father’s men."
Her heart skipped. Her hand didn’t.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Don’t lie to me."
His voice cracked through the room. He stepped into her space, daring her to use the knife or back down. She stepped back. Her heel caught in the dress.
He moved first. Caught her wrist and twisted. The stiletto hit the floor. Before she could swing with her other hand, he hooked her leg and took her down.
They landed hard. He was on top of her, pinning her wrists, both of them breathing too fast. She fought him. He didn’t move.
"You’re Clara Rossi," he said quietly, right against her mouth. "You’re the ghost who’s been leaking my shipping routes for three months. I knew someone was bleeding me. I just didn’t think it was a 5'5 girl who pretended to work in an orphanage."
Ice dropped into her stomach. He knew. Before the wedding.
"If you knew, why marry me?" she spat.
"Because ghosts are easier to catch when you lock them in your house," he said. "And because I wanted to see how far you’d go. But tonight the rules changed. My people are compromised. Your brother’s in a box. Someone’s playing both of us."
She went still. The anger was still there, but her head started working again.
"What are you saying?"
"Marcones are brutal, not smart," Julian said. He eased his grip but didn’t get off her. "Hitting a secure medical facility takes council clearance codes. Someone in my family sold Leo out to start a war."
He stood and held out a hand. She ignored it and got up on her own, kicking the ruined dress out of the way.
"We have 36 hours before Leo’s system fails," she said. Her voice was flat now. Clinical. "If your council is dirty, we can’t use your men."
"Then we don’t," Julian said. He opened a hidden panel in the wall. Guns. Ammo. Everything. "You want your brother. I want the traitor. We do it alone."
Before she could answer, the TV on the wall flickered on.
Static. Then a basement.
Leo, tied to a metal chair. Breathing shallow. A black box strapped to his chest with a timer blinking.
A masked figure stepped in front of the camera and held up a burner phone.
The voice was distorted.
"Don Valenti. Sixty minutes. Bring the encrypted keys to the Valenti offshore accounts to Pier 42. Bring security and the boy’s filtration system gets shut off."
The figure leaned in.
"And tell your ghost bride... we know exactly who she is. Don’t keep us waiting, Clara."
Black screen.
A countdown appeared in the middle of the room.
59:59.
Clara’s blood went cold. She was already at the weapons cache, grabbing a submachine g*n and a belt like she’d done it a hundred times.
Then Julian grabbed her shoulder. His face was pale. He held up his phone.
"Clara," he said. No arrogance. Just dread. "That transmission didn’t come from outside."
She frowned. "What?"
He turned the screen to her. Internal routing log.
"The feed is broadcasting from inside this house. They’re not at the pier.
They’re in the estate bunker. Right now."
- Writer
