Chapter 13 - Blood in the Rose Garden
Moreva moved through the manicured hedges like a wraith born of the smoke and embers drifting overhead. The crackle of the burning manor masked the sound of his footsteps across the damp gravel.
At the perimeter gate, four men in gray tactical fatigues were smoking cigarettes, their carbines slung loosely across their chests. They were relaxed, assuming the inferno had done their work for them.
"Radio dispatch," one of them said, flicking his cigarette butt into the ornamental fountain. "Tell the contractor the old man and the brother are cooked. We clear out before the state police arrive."
"What about the maid?" another asked, leaning against the hood of the lead SUV. "Julian said she had to be confirmed."
"Look at the place, idiot," the first man laughed, gesturing toward the collapsing roof of the central villa. "Nobody survived that cellar. She's charcoal."
A silencer coughed twice from the shadow of the marble cherub fountain.
The first man dropped instantly, a neat black hole punched through his temple before his laughter had fully faded. The second man gasped, reaching for his sling, but Moreva was already upon him.
Moreva closed the distance in a blur, driving his combat blade upward under the man’s tactical vest, piercing the heart with practiced, terrifying precision. He wrenched the carbine from the falling soldier's hands, spun on his heel, and laid down a precision burst into the remaining two guards before they could even unholster their sidearms.
The entire engagement lasted less than four seconds. The garden was silent again, save for the hum of the SUV engines and the steady crackle of the manor burning against the stars.
Moreva let out a low, sharp whistle.
From behind the stone retaining wall fifty yards back, Clara emerged. She moved as fast as her aching body would allow, one hand braced against her abdomen, her shoes slipping in the mud.
Moreva met her halfway, sweeping her off her feet into his arms before she could stumble. He carried her to the rear SUV, kicking the driver's door open and placing her carefully into the passenger seat.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his hands checking her rapidly for wounds.
"No," Clara breathed, clutching the dashboard. "No, I'm whole. The baby is whole."
Moreva slammed the door shut, rounded the hood, and threw himself behind the steering wheel. He jammed the vehicle into reverse, backing hard over the crushed estate gates, the tires screaming against the asphalt as he swung the heavy machine onto the mountain highway.
In the rearview mirror, the Moreva ancestral estate collapsed into a monumental pillar of fire and spark, folding into the earth that had birthed it a century before.
Clara watched the flames shrink into the distance. She looked down at the blood-stained will in her lap, then at Moreva's profile—sharp, stoic, and illuminated by the green glow of the dashboard instrument cluster.
May you like
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
Moreva didn't look back. "Palermo."
