Chapter 7 - The Betrayal Within
While Roman went to confront the council, Norah worked tirelessly in the private library, her fingers flying across the dual monitors. Hours slipped away as she translated official shipping declarations, bypassing the bureaucratic roadblocks Marcus had planted. By nine in the evening, the legal clearance arrived: the port authority released the cargo under international diplomatic exemption.
She leaned back in the leather chair, rubbing her aching lower back. The apartment was eerily quiet. Too quiet.
Norah stood up, intending to ask the guards for a glass of water, when the heavy oak doors of the library swung open.
It wasn't Dante.
A man with slicked-back hair and a sharp, cruel sneer walked into the room, flanked by two armed men wearing street clothes, not the Thorne security uniform. Norah recognized his facial structure immediately—he looked like a corrupted, hollow version of Roman.
Marcus Thorne.
""Well, well,"" Marcus drawled, his eyes raking over her with sleazy amusement. ""The famous little translator who thinks she can outplay me at my own game.""
Norah backed away slowly until her spine hit the mahogany desk. She discreetly slipped her right hand toward the panic button Roman had shown her beneath the desk ledge.
""Don't bother with the silent alarm, darling,"" Marcus said, pulling a severed radio wire from his pocket and tossing it onto the rug. ""Your loyal guards outside are taking a very long nap in the stairwell. Roman’s security team has a few loyalties that were easily bought with Moretti cash.""
Norah's pulse hammered in her ears, but she forced her face into an expression of cool defiance. ""Roman will tear you apart for this, Marcus.""
Marcus laughed, a harsh, grating sound. ""Roman is currently surrounded in a warehouse across the river. By the time he figures out the harbor raid was a decoy to draw him away, you and that little bastard in your belly will be bargaining chips in Helena Moretti’s basement.""
Before Norah could scream, one of Marcus's thugs lunged forward, pressing a cloth soaked in sweet, sickening chemicals over her mouth and nose. Norah fought with every ounce of strength she possessed, kicking fiercely and clawing at the man's wrists. But the darkness was swift and merciless.
As her vision tunneled into blackness, her last conscious thought was a desperate prayer for the baby inside her—and the fierce, burning hope that Roman would come for them.
When she woke, her head throbbed violently. She was tied to a wooden chair in what appeared to be an abandoned shipping office near the water. Rain lashed against broken windows, and the smell of salt and diesel fuel filled the freezing air.
""She's awake,"" a sharp, feminine voice called out.
Helena Moretti stepped out of the shadows, wearing a leather trench coat, a cruel smile playing on her lips. Behind her stood Marcus, pacing nervously like a cornered animal.
""You really made a fool of me at the gala, didn't you, little mouse?"" Helena purred, stepping close and backhanding Norah across the cheek.
The crack echoed in the empty room. Norah cried out as the sharp sting bloomed across her skin, but she refused to bow her head. She tasted iron on her lip, spat the blood onto the concrete floor, and stared straight into Helena’s venomous eyes.
""Is that the best you've got?"" Norah rasped. ""Roman was right about you. You're second-rate.""
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Helena’s face twisted in rage. She drew a small silver revolver from her pocket and pressed the cold barrel directly against Norah’s forehead. ""Let's see how brave you are when Roman finds your body washed up on the piers.""
""If you pull that trigger,"" a voice rang out from the darkness above—a voice so cold, so terrifyingly calm that the temperature in the room plummeted—""none of you will leave this room alive.""
