Chapter 12 - A Traitor's Face
"Don't move, Matteo," a smooth, familiar voice drifted down the lighthouse shaft.
Elena froze. The light shifted, revealing a man standing on the upper iron catwalk twenty feet above them, pointing a sleek silver handgun straight down into the pit.
Matteo didn't draw his weapon. He slowly stood up, stepping directly into the beam to shield Elena and Mia with his broad back.
"Marco," Matteo said, his tone devoid of surprise, replaced only by a bone-chilling, arctic coldness. "You were supposed to be holding the perimeter at the estate."
Marco, Matteo’s trusted lieutenant for seven years, sneered down at them. "The estate fell forty minutes ago, boss. Because I opened the southern gates myself."
Elena felt the air leave her lungs. The betrayal had not come from an external rival; it had festered inside Matteo’s inner circle all along.
"Victor Volkov offered five million dollars and control of the southern docks for the girl," Marco continued, his hand rock-steady on the pistol. "He doesn't care about your empire, Matteo. He only cares about blood. And your uncle Castiglione was more than happy to split the remainder of your territory with me once you were out of the picture."
"You sold my daughter to a butcher," Matteo said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, the muscles in his back bunching into iron knots.
"I sold an orphan to her grandfather," Marco sneered. "Now, kick your weapon into the water, Matteo. Tell the nanny to carry the girl up the ladder. If you try to climb, I put a hollow-point through your skull."
Matteo looked down at Elena. His dark eyes flickered toward the rusty iron conduit pipe running directly behind Marco’s catwalk support. Elena noticed a frayed high-voltage cable dangling loosely from an old junction box near the rung where her left hand rested.
"Elena," Matteo spoke softly, his words seemingly meant as a surrender. "Take Mia. Climb up."
Elena looked at him, then caught the micro-movement of his eyes flicking toward the severed black wire. She understood instantly.
She picked up Mia, stepping toward the ladder with deliberate slowness. As she reached the third rung, her foot slipped deliberately, sending her crashing back down onto the landing with a sharp, piercing cry.
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"Watch it!" Marco snapped, leaning over the catwalk railing to aim lower.
In that split second of distraction, Matteo didn't draw a gun. He reached down, grabbed the exposed high-voltage cable, and hurled the copper core directly onto the rusted steel rungs of the ladder frame Marco was leaning against.
