Chapter 7 - The Ghost in the Garage
The sun dipped below the Manhattan skyline, casting long, bruised purples and crimsons across the sprawling lawns of the Duca estate.
Inside the grand study, the fireplace roared with cedar logs, throwing flickering shadows across the mahogany walls. But the warmth of the fire couldn't thaw the ice in the room.
Raphael Bruno slammed a dossier down onto the oak desk. "We checked his digital footprint. Damian scrubbed his servers clean at three this afternoon, right before the federal warrant was signed. He’s off the grid."
Lorenzo stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the dark gardens where the security spotlights cut sharp beams through the misty night air. He held a glass of bourbon in his hand, the amber liquid untouched.
"He's not off the grid, Raphael," Lorenzo said quietly. "He’s a soldier. A professional doesn't run away without tying up loose ends."
"You think he's coming back here?" Raphael asked, his hand drifting instinctively to the holster beneath his suit jacket.
"I know he is," Lorenzo replied, turning around. "Damian recommended himself to this family. He helped cut my brakes. He thought he buried me at the bottom of the Long Island sound. When he finds out I'm alive—when he realizes the entire federal case is closing in because of us—he won't flee the country. He’ll try to finish what he started."
Clara stood near the doorway, holding a cup of cold tea she had forgotten to drink. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terrifying realization.
"The estate..." Clara whispered. "Mia and I... we're still living in the staff wing. If Damian comes back here—"
"He won't touch you," Lorenzo interrupted, his voice cutting through the room with absolute authority. He walked over to Clara, stopping just inches away. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder, feeling her tremble slightly. "Listen to me, Clara. Tonight, you and Mia are moving into the master suite on the second floor. It has reinforced steel doors, independent security feeds, and a direct panic line to Raphael's tactical unit."
"And you?" Clara asked, her hazel eyes searching his face with fierce desperation. "Where will you be?"
"Waiting in the garage," Lorenzo said softly.
Raphael stared at him in disbelief. "Lorenzo, that’s suicide. If Damian is armed and desperate, he’ll come in through the lower service bay. You can't just sit down there waiting for him like bait."
"It's not bait, Raphael," Lorenzo said, a cold, predatory smile touching his lips. "It's an invitation. Let him think the house is vulnerable. Let him walk into the exact same garage where he thought he killed me six weeks ago."
Clara grabbed Lorenzo’s coat sleeve, her fingers digging into the wool. "Don't do this. Let the marshals handle him. Please."
Lorenzo looked down at her hand, covering her small fingers with his own warm palm. His thumb brushed over her knuckles.
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"Some debts have to be collected in person, Clara," he murmured. "Go upstairs with Mia. Lock the door. And don't open it for anyone—do you hear me? Anyone—until I come up and knock three times."
Clara searched his eyes for a long moment, seeing the unyielding wall of his resolve. Slowly, she nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Be careful, Lorenzo."
