Chapter 13 - Sparks in the Dark
A blinding explosion of electric blue fire tore through the lighthouse shaft. The current surged through the iron infrastructure, finding the ground right through the metal railing Marco was gripping with both hands.
A horrifying scream ripped from Marco’s throat as twenty thousand volts seized his body, locking his fingers to the steel. His firearm fired wild, the ricocheting bullet sparking harmlessly off the granite walls before plowing into the water below.
Matteo released the insulated rubber sleeve of the cable, leaped upward with impossible speed, caught the underside of the catwalk, and hauled himself up. With a single, brutal thrust of his boot, he sent Marco’s convulsing body tumbling over the railing.
The traitor hit the stone landing with a sickening thud, then rolled motionless into the dark churning waters of the incoming tide, vanishing beneath the foam.
Matteo swung over the railing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He leaned over the edge, looking down at Elena. "Elena! Climb! Now!"
Elena didn't waste a second. Tying Mia securely to her front with the remnants of the thermal shirt, she scrambled up the iron rungs, her soaked muscles burning with lactic acid. Matteo reached down, his powerful tattooed hands wrapping around her forearms, lifting both her and the child up onto the catwalk with effortless strength.
They didn't stop. They raced up the spiraling staircase of the abandoned lighthouse until they reached the lantern room at the summit.
Outside, the storm was breaking. Through the rain-streaked glass, Elena could see the winding coastal highway half a mile inland. Parked along the shoulder under the pine trees was a single, unmarked matte-black sedan, its hazard lights blinking in a slow, rhythmic pattern.
"Is that yours?" Elena asked, wiping rain and sweat from her forehead.
"No," Matteo whispered, pulling a set of tactical binoculars from a locker behind the shattered lens of the lighthouse beacon. He adjusted the focus, his face darkening with absolute dread. "That's not mine."
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Through the glass, the driver’s side door opened. A woman stepped out into the pouring rain. She was tall, elegant, wearing an ivory trench coat that flapped against the wind. When she looked up toward the lighthouse, Elena felt her heart stop completely.
The woman’s face was identical to the portrait of the late Sophia Rossi that hung above the grand piano in the penthouse living room.
