Chapter 6 - Enemy on Both Fronts
Manhattan at two in the morning was shrouded in a blanket of freezing autumn fog.
The black SUV pulled into the alleyway two blocks north of the 68th Street townhouse. I sat in the backseat beside Marco, dressed in black combat boots, dark jeans, and a heavy tactical jacket. Beneath the jacket, strapped against my ribcage, was a compact 9mm semiautomatic pistol—a weapon Marco had spent the last three days teaching me to draw, aim, and fire in the estate's underground shooting range.
""Marco,"" his lieutenant, Luca, whispered from the front passenger seat, adjusting his night-vision binoculars. ""Two unmarked sedans parked across the street. Rossi’s private contractors. Another vehicle down the block—FBI surveillance van.""
""The FBI won't interfere unless shots are fired,"" Marco said, his voice dropping into the quiet, lethal register he used before violence. ""They are building a paper trail. Rossi’s men, however, have orders to eliminate Isabel before she can be subpoenaed by the grand jury.""
""I know the layout,"" I said, checking the magazine of my weapon with steady hands. ""The servants' entrance through the garden has no cameras. My father never wired it because he used it to bring his mistresses into the basement suite.""
Marco looked at me, his jaw tightening. ""We move fast. Three minutes to the safe, three minutes out. Luca holds the garden gate. If anyone draws a weapon, shoot to kill.""
We slipped through the fog like shadows.
The wrought-iron gate to the garden gave way with a soft click as I used my personal key. The smell of wet earth and dying ivy surrounded us. Marco moved ahead of me, his suppressed pistol raised, clearing every blind corner with terrifying fluidity.
We slipped through the heavy mahogany basement door into the wine cellar. The air was cool and smelled of oak casks and aged vintage.
I walked directly to the third rack of Bordeaux on the north wall, reached behind a bottle of 1982 Château Margaux, and pressed the hidden release latch. A section of the brick wall swung outward with a faint pneumatic hiss, revealing a biometric keypad.
I placed my thumb on the scanner. The red light flashed green.
The heavy steel vault door clicked open. Inside, illuminated by a single white LED strip, was the titanium hardware token resting beside a stack of bearer bonds and a thick manila envelope marked ROSSI SETTLEMENT.
I grabbed the token and the envelope. ""Got it,"" I whispered.
Suddenly, the overhead cellar lights blazed to life, blinding us.
""Drop the weapon, Carbone!"" a voice shouted from the cellar stairs.
I spun around. Standing on the stairs, surrounded by four men with drawn automatic pistols, was Thomas Rossi.
His right arm was in a black sling beneath his tailored suit, but his left hand held a Glock pointed directly at Marco’s chest. His handsome face was twisted into a sneer of pure, desperate hatred.
""Thomas,"" I breathed, stepping in front of Marco instinctively.
""Isabel,"" Thomas sneered, his eyes flicking over my dark clothes and the gun at my hip. ""Look at you. Playing soldier for the man who ruined our wedding. Did you really think you were anything more than an entry in your father’s ledger?""
""You slept with Elena,"" I said, my voice dead and cold. ""You were going to frame me for the trust fraud.""
Thomas laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that bounced off the brick walls. ""Your father offered me forty million dollars and a Senate seat to take you off his hands. You were a boring, sentimental burden, Isabel. And now you’re going to be a tragic casualty of a mafia raid.""
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Thomas nodded to his men. ""Kill them both. Burn the cellar.""
Before the gunman to his left could raise his weapon, the darkness exploded into violence.
