The Woman Hidden In The Cadillac Trunk

Luca didn't freeze. He didn't panic.

He looked at the small black timer blinking twelve seconds, and his mafia instincts took over.

He scooped Mia into his arms, wrapping his massive body around her to shield her.

“Run!” Luca roared at me and Rosa.

I grabbed Rosa’s hand, yanking the older woman back through the heavy iron door. We sprinted down the damp stone corridor, our shoes slipping on the wet floor.

Luca was right behind us, carrying Mia effortlessly.

“Keep moving! Don't look back!” Luca shouted.

Eight seconds.

We hit the narrow concrete stairs leading back up to the kitchen. I pushed Rosa forward, practically shoving her up the steps.

Five seconds.

We burst through the wooden door into the main kitchen.

“Down!” Luca screamed.

He threw himself over Mia on the kitchen floor. I dragged Rosa behind the massive marble island just as a deafening explosion ripped through the foundation of the house.

The floor violently shook. The concussive blast blew the basement door clean off its hinges, sending wood splinters and dust rocketing across the kitchen.

The lights flickered and died.

For a terrifying moment, there was only the sound of falling debris and ringing ears.

Then, a small, terrified whimper broke the silence.

“Daddy?”

“I’m here, baby,” Luca coughed, his voice thick with dust. “I’m here. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Mia sobbed.

I pulled myself up, coughing the thick plaster dust from my lungs. Rosa was shaking, but uninjured.

Luca stood up, his white shirt now gray with dust. He checked Mia carefully, making sure she didn't have a single scratch.

Then, his eyes turned pure black.

The relief was gone. Now, there was only vengeance.

“She tried to kill my child,” Luca whispered.

He picked up the gun he had dropped near the island. He checked the magazine.

“Stay here, Claire,” Luca ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority. “Do not let anyone in this kitchen.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, my hands trembling.

“To finish this.”

He walked out of the kitchen, disappearing into the dark, dusty hallway.

I sat on the floor, pulling Mia into my lap. She buried her face in my shoulder, crying quietly.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I whispered, rocking her. “Your dad is going to protect us.”

Rosa sat beside me, gripping her purse.

Ten minutes passed in agonizing silence.

Then, we heard footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoing from the dining room.

I held my breath, tightening my grip on Mia.

The swinging doors of the kitchen slowly pushed open.

But it wasn't Luca.

And it wasn't Vanessa.

It was Isabella Moretti.

Luca's banished sister.

She looked terrible. Her clothes were torn, her face bruised, and she was limping heavily. But her dark eyes—so much like Luca’s—were blazing with fury.

In her right hand, she dragged a heavy metal crowbar.

“Isabella?” Rosa gasped.

Isabella stopped, leaning heavily on the crowbar. She looked at Rosa, then at me, and finally at Mia.

A small, broken smile touched her lips.

“She’s safe,” Isabella breathed.

“How are you alive?” I asked, staring at her in shock. “Vanessa said you picked the lock of the trunk and ran.”

“Vanessa lies,” Isabella spat, wiping blood from her lip. “She drove me to the old shipyard. She paid three men to drown me in a shipping container. I spent the last three hours fighting my way out.”

She looked around the dark, destroyed kitchen.

“Where is my brother?”

“He went looking for Vanessa,” I said.

Isabella’s eyes widened in sheer panic.

“No,” she choked out. “You have to stop him.”

“Stop him? Why?” Rosa asked. “Vanessa deserves whatever he does to her.”

“You don't understand,” Isabella cried, limping toward us. “Vanessa isn’t running. She’s setting a trap. The men at the shipyard told me everything before I left.”

She dropped the crowbar. It clattered loudly against the marble tile.

“Vanessa didn't buy Matteo's debt,” Isabella revealed, her voice shaking. “She sold it. To the Russian syndicate. The explosives in the basement weren't meant to kill Mia.”

My stomach plummeted.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The bomb was a distraction to get Luca out of the main house,” Isabella said. “Vanessa doesn't want Luca dead. She wants him to walk right into the ambush waiting for him in the master suite.”

Isabella grabbed my arm, her grip desperate.

“They are going to force Luca to sign over the entire organization at gunpoint. If he refuses, they are going to kill him. And if he dies, Vanessa takes everything through Matteo.”

I looked down at Mia, who was clinging to my apron.

I couldn't stay in this kitchen. I couldn't let Mia lose her father.

“Rosa, lock the doors,” I said, standing up.

“Claire, what are you doing?” Rosa gasped.

I reached into the drawer of the kitchen island and pulled out a heavy chef's knife. It wasn't a gun, but it was all I had.

“I'm going to find Luca.”

I slipped out of the kitchen, running silently up the back stairs. The power was still out, the hallways illuminated only by moonlight filtering through the windows.

As I approached the master suite, I heard voices.

I pressed myself against the wall, peering around the corner.

The heavy double doors of Luca's bedroom were wide open.

Inside, illuminated by emergency lights, stood four heavily armed men in dark tactical gear. Russian enforcers.

In the center of the room, Luca was on his knees. His gun had been taken. His hands were bound behind his back with a zip tie.

Standing in front of him, holding a suppressed pistol, was Vanessa.

She looked completely composed, her silk gown untouched by the dust and chaos below.

“Sign the papers, Luca,” Vanessa smiled, holding out a pen and a leather folio. “Sign over the territory, and I'll let you live long enough to attend your daughter's funeral.”

Luca looked up at her, his face a mask of pure, lethal hatred.

“Go to hell,” he spat.

Vanessa sighed in mock disappointment.

She raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Luca's head.

“Have it your way, darling.”

Before she could pull the trigger, I stepped out from the shadows.

“Vanessa!” I screamed.

She whipped her head toward me, startled.

I didn't throw the knife. I didn't run at her.

Instead, I held up the thick, red-wax-sealed envelope containing Luca's father's real will.

I held a cigarette lighter underneath it.