Chapter 5 - The Trap in the East Wing
The plan was simple, dangerous, and required absolute secrecy.
We leaked fabricated information through a controlled, secure channel accessible only to the inner circle: Lily was being moved to a secure off-site medical facility in downtown Chicago for specialized neurological scans on Friday night at midnight.
If the mole was inside the mansion, they would have to pass that intelligence on to the Moretti family so an ambush could be prepared. And to do that, they would need to access the estate’s secure satellite transmitter room located in the sub-basement of the East Wing—the only place on the property where encrypted external transmissions could be sent without routing through Dominic’s personal server.
Thursday night, the mansion was shrouded in heavy fog. The security lights cast eerie, elongated shadows across the manicured lawns.
I sat in the dark surveillance room alongside Marcus, the head of security, watching a multi-split monitor feed that covered every corridor of the East Wing. Dominic sat in the shadows behind us, a silenced pistol resting on the desk within arm's reach.
“Hour zero-two-hundred,” Marcus muttered, adjusting his tactical headset. “Nothing on sector four.”
“Keep watching,” I whispered, my eyes glued to Camera 12, which covered the heavy steel door of the sub-basement transmitter room.
For two hours, nothing moved. The mansion was dead silent, save for the distant hum of the HVAC system.
Then, at 2:14 AM, a pixel flickered on Camera 12.
A shadow detached itself from the hallway alcove, moving with practiced, silent stealth. The figure approached the heavy steel door of the transmitter room, pulled a small electronic bypass device from their coat pocket, and pressed it against the digital keypad.
A faint green light blinked. The heavy door clicked open, and the figure slipped inside, closing it softly behind them.
“Got him,” Marcus hissed, reaching for his sidearm.
“Wait,” Dominic’s voice cut through the room like a whip. He stepped out of the shadows, his face carved from ice. “Let him transmit. I want the receiving IP address traced to its source. I want absolute, undeniable proof before I put a bullet in a traitor’s head.”
We waited through five agonizing, torturous minutes. Every second felt like an eternity.
Finally, a soft chime echoed through Marcus’s console. “Trace complete, Mr. Rosetti. The data packet was routed directly to a private server registered to a shell corporation owned by the Moretti family.”
Dominic nodded slowly. He picked up his pistol, checked the magazine with a mechanical click, and tucked it into his holster.
“Come with me, Leo,” Dominic said. “You’re going to see how the Rosetti family handles housekeeping.”
We moved through the dark corridors of the East Wing like ghosts. Marcus and two heavily armed guards flanked us, their tactical boots making no sound on the thick Persian runners.
When we reached the sub-basement door, it was still ajar. A faint, pale blue light from the computer monitors inside spilled out onto the concrete floor.
Dominic didn't knock. He kicked the heavy steel door open with a thunderous crash that echoed down the hallway.
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Inside, illuminated by the glow of three high-end monitors, stood Vincent Rossi.
The chief legal counsel froze, his hands hovering over the mechanical keyboard. He didn't look panicked; instead, a slow, bitter smile crept across his handsome face as he turned around to face the barrel of Dominic’s gun.
