Chapter 7 - The Confrontation
When I woke up, my head felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer.
My hands were tied securely behind my back with heavy plastic ties, my ankles bound together with thick duct tape. I was sitting on a cold, damp concrete floor in what smelled like an abandoned boat house—stale water, rusted iron, and gasoline.
Through a small high window, I could see dark clouds rolling across the sky. Night was falling.
“She’s awake.”
I forced my eyes open, shaking off the fog of the sedative.
Grant stood five feet away, wearing a dark heavy coat, holding a glass of scotch in one hand. Beside him stood Bianca Russo, wrapped in her white cashmere coat, looking at me with pure, triumphant disgust.
And in the corner of the room, chained to an iron support pillar with a heavy tow chain, was Bruno.
The dog was bleeding from a shallow graze on his shoulder, his head low, his breathing heavy. But the moment he saw my eyes open, his tail gave a tiny, desperate thud against the concrete.
“Bruno,” I rasped, my throat raw and burning.
“Don't bother,” Grant said, taking a sip of his drink. “The beast took two tranquilizer darts before he went down. He won't be protecting you today, Clara.”
I glared at him, pulling against the zip-ties around my wrists. “You’re insane, Grant. Matteo will hunt you to the ends of the earth for this.”
Bianca let out a shrill, hysterical laugh. “Matteo is currently chasing false GPS signals down toward the Indiana border! My father’s contacts set up three decoy vehicles leaving Lake Geneva two hours ago. By the time Matteo realizes you’re still within five miles of his estate, you’ll be on a private plane to Mexico!”
“Mexico?” I looked at Grant. “What are you talking about?”
Grant knelt down in front of me, grabbing my chin roughly with his hand. His breath smelled of expensive whiskey and stale cigarettes.
“You belong to me, Clara,” Grant whispered, his eyes wild and unhinged. “You thought you could leave me, take a job as a maid, and sleep with a mob boss? I am taking you somewhere where nobody knows your name, where nobody listens to your mouth, and where you will spend every day paying off the debt you owe me.”
I spat directly into his face.
Grant gasped, jumping back and wiping his cheek with his sleeve, his face darkening into pure rage. He raised his hand to strike me—
BOOM.
The heavy steel doors of the boathouse exploded inward in a shower of sparks, twisted metal, and shattered wood.
A flashbang grenade bounced across the concrete floor, detonating with a blinding white light and a deafening roar that sent shockwaves through the small building.
Bianca screamed, dropping to her knees, clutching her ears.
Grant stumbled backward, blinded, shouting for his men.
Through the thick white smoke of the breach stepped Matteo Moretti.
He didn't wear tactical gear or a helmet. He wore his black wool coat, his face cold and lethal as a stone monument, a heavy automatic shotgun resting against his hip.
Behind him came Leo and eight armed operatives, sweeping the room with military precision, dropping Grant’s three hired mercenaries before they could even draw their sidearms.
Matteo didn't shout. He didn't hesitate.
He walked through the smoke directly toward Grant.
Grant scrambled backward on his hands and knees, reaching for a small pistol tucked in his coat pocket. “Moretti! Stay back! I’ll shoot her!”
Matteo didn't even slow his pace.
As Grant raised the gun, Matteo stepped forward, caught Grant’s wrist with his left hand, and twisted it until a loud SNAP echoed through the boathouse.
Grant shrieked in agony, dropping the weapon as he collapsed onto the concrete, clutching his broken arm.
Matteo racked the shotgun, placing the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Grant’s forehead.
“Matteo! Please!” Bianca shrieked from the floor, crawling toward the exit. “It was Grant’s idea! I just helped him with the boat house! Please don't kill me!”
Leo caught Bianca by the collar of her white coat, dragging her back into the center of the room, slapping heavy steel handcuffs onto her wrists.
Matteo didn't look at Bianca. His dark eyes remained locked on Grant, who was sobbing hysterically on the floor beneath his gun.
“Matteo,” I called out, my voice raspy.
Matteo’s finger rested on the trigger. The cold, empty fury in his eyes was absolute. For a second, I thought he was going to pull it right there on the concrete floor.
“Matteo, look at me,” I begged softly.
Matteo’s dark eyes slowly shifted from Grant’s face to mine.
I looked at him through the smoke, my tied hands resting against my lap.
“Don't do it for him,” I whispered. “He isn't worth your life. He isn't worth the man you are.”
Matteo stood over Grant for three long, agonizing seconds. The silence in the boathouse was absolute, save for the sound of Grant’s terrified weeping.
Slowly, Matteo lowered the shotgun.
He looked down at his right hand, then looked at Leo.
“Call the Federal Marshals,” Matteo commanded flatly. “Hand Grant and Miss Russo over alongside the kidnapping, extortion, and interstate trafficking files we compiled yesterday. Make sure they spend the rest of their lives in federal custody.”
“Understood, boss,” Leo nodded, hauling Grant to his feet and shoving him toward the waiting guards.
Matteo dropped the shotgun onto a wooden crate and ran to my side.
He dropped to his knees in the damp concrete, pulling a sharp pocketknife from his belt, slicing through the zip-ties on my wrists and the duct tape on my ankles in two swift motions.
The moment my hands were free, I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face into his shoulder.
Matteo held me with a terrifying, desperate strength, his large hands cradling the back of my head, his chest heaving as he buried his face into my neck.
“I found you,” he whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion I had never heard from him before. “I found you, Clara.”
“I knew you would,” I sobbed softly, clinging to his coat. “I knew you’d come.”
A low, wet nudge pressed against my side.
We both looked down.
Leo had unlocked the heavy tow chain from the pillar. Bruno stood beside us, his wounded shoulder bandaged with a clean cloth Leo had provided, his dark eyes looking at us with quiet, magnificent devotion.
Bruno lowered his massive head, resting it right between Matteo and me.
May you like
Matteo let out a shaky, quiet laugh, wrapping one massive arm around the dog’s neck while keeping his other arm tightly wrapped around me.
“We’re going home,” Matteo promised, looking into my eyes with a love so fierce and bright it illuminated the dark boathouse completely. “All three of us.”
