Page 11 of Devil’s Embrace (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #10)

Emory

I stretched out on the bed, watching the ornate clock on the nightstand and counted the minutes crawling past. Ten o’clock.

Eleven. Midnight. Since they’d locked me back in after my brief, supervised visit with Mina, the mansion’s sounds had shifted.

Footsteps in the hallway thinned out, voices faded, and doors opened and closed less often.

Half a dozen times in the past hour, I’d pressed my ear against the door, straining to catch any sign of a guard outside.

Nothing. Only the occasional creak of the house settling, and the relentless pounding of my heart.

One in the morning. The witching hour. As good a time as any to try.

I slid off the bed, my bare feet silent against the plush carpet.

During my supervised breaks, I'd noticed the lock on my door was simple—a key lock that looked sophisticated but wasn't anything special.

Growing up in a small town in Alabama had taught me a thing or two about getting into places I wasn't supposed to access.

Teenage rebellion had its uses after all.

First, I checked the windows, even though I'd already confirmed earlier they’d been sealed shut. Three stories up anyway—not an option unless I wanted to break my neck. The air vent was too small for even Mina to crawl through. That left the door as my only option.

I moved to the vanity, running my fingers along its edge, searching for anything I could use.

The hairbrush was useless, but the drawer yielded a thin metal hairpin—the kind used to secure updos.

I clutched it like it was made of gold. Next, I checked the desk in the corner.

The drawers slid open silently, revealing stationery, pens, and—thank God—a letter opener with a narrow tip.

Tools in hand, I crept to the door, pressing my ear against it one more time. Silence. I kneeled down, eye level with the lock, and got to work.

My hands trembled as I inserted the hairpin, feeling for the tumblers. Sweat beaded on my forehead, trickling down the side of my face. I'd done this before as a teenager, but never with so much at stake. Never with my daughter's life hanging in the balance.

"Come on." I twisted the hairpin with practiced fingers. "Come on."

I lost track of time, my world narrowing to the lock and my clumsy hands. Every sound from elsewhere in the mansion made me freeze—a distant door closing, the central heat kicking on. Each time, I held my breath, counting to twenty before continuing.

The letter opener slipped from my sweaty palm. I gasped, snatching it up and pressing myself flat against the door, certain someone must have heard. Seconds ticked by. Nothing.

"Pull it together, Emory," I muttered to myself, wiping my palms on my jeans.

I resumed my work, focusing on the feel of the tumblers beneath my makeshift picks. Seconds stretched into minutes. My knees ached from kneeling on the hard floor. Just as frustration threatened to overwhelm me, I felt it—the subtle give as the final tumbler slipped into place.

Click.

The sound was soft, barely audible even in the silent room, but to me, it might as well have been a gunshot. I pulled back, staring at the doorknob as if it might bite me. With a trembling hand, I reached out, turning it slowly.

The door opened.

I remained frozen, half-expecting alarms to blare or guards to come running. Nothing happened. The hallway remained silent and empty, lit only by small sconces spaced along the walls, their dim light creating long shadows on the expensive carpet.

I slipped out, easing the door closed behind me without fully latching it—I couldn't risk being locked out if I needed to return quickly. The air felt colder out here, raising goosebumps on my arms. Or maybe that was just fear.

Which way? During our walks through the mansion, I'd tried to memorize the layout, but the place was massive. Mina's room—the blue room, Luca had called it—was in the east wing. I turned right, hugging the wall as I moved.

Every step felt like walking on shards of glass. I strained my ears for any sound that might indicate someone was coming. My heart pounded so loudly I feared it would give me away.

At the first intersection, I pressed myself into an alcove, peering around the corner. Empty. I continued on, counting doors, trying to match them with what I'd seen earlier. This place was a maze, designed to confuse and trap.

A sound—footsteps approaching from a side corridor.

I froze, then ducked into the nearest doorway, a small sitting room of some kind.

I hid behind a heavy curtain, holding my breath as the footsteps passed.

A guard making rounds. Once they faded, I emerged, trembling harder now but more determined than ever.

Mina. I had to find Mina. Every second I wasted increased our chances of being caught. I pictured her sleeping in her unicorn costume, alone and confused in a strange place. The image hardened my resolve. I moved faster, less cautious but more purposeful.

I reached a staircase I recognized from earlier—the main one that curved elegantly to the lower floors. Mina's room should be down the next hall, if my mental map was correct. I placed my foot on the first step.

Then I saw it—a thin line of light spilling from beneath a door at the end of the hallway. Luca's study. I recognized the carved door from earlier that day.

I hesitated, foot hovering above the step.

Mina was my priority—I needed to find her, to get her out of this place.

But the light meant Luca was still awake, working late.

In his study might be information, keys, maybe even a phone.

Something that could help us escape more efficiently than just running blindly.

But if he caught me...

I bit my lip, torn between maternal instinct and practical necessity. If I found Mina now, where would we go? How would we get past the guards, the walls, the security I'd glimpsed during our arrival? Without information, without resources, we'd never make it to the front gate.

My decision made, I turned away from the stairs and moved toward the light. Toward Luca's study. Toward the devil's den.

I approached the door silently, my ears straining for any sound from within. Nothing but silence. Perhaps he'd left the light on and gone elsewhere? The thought gave me courage.

Holding my breath, I placed my hand on the doorknob, twisted it slowly, and pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.

The study was empty.

Relief flooded me, quickly followed by a surge of adrenaline. This was my chance. I slipped inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounded thunderous in the quiet room.

The study smelled of expensive cologne, leather, and whiskey.

A crystal tumbler sat on the desk, amber liquid still visible at the bottom, ice cubes just beginning to melt.

He hadn't been gone long. My gaze swept the room—the wall of books behind the desk, the leather chairs arranged near a small fireplace, the laptop closed but still warm when my fingers brushed its surface.

Everything about this space screamed power and control, just like its owner.

I needed to be quick. Moving to the desk, I began opening drawers, rifling through papers with nervous fingers.

The first drawer contained only expensive pens, notepads, and a silver letter opener far nicer than the one I'd used to pick the lock.

The second drawer held nothing of interest—business documents with letterheads reading "Moretti Imports," whatever that meant.

The third drawer slid open to reveal several manila folders, neatly labeled and organized. My breath caught when I saw my name on one of them. Emory Scott.

With trembling hands, I pulled it out and opened it on the desk surface.

The first page was a detailed profile—my date of birth, social security number, medical history.

Photos of me at various locations—walking into work, shopping at the grocery store, picking Mina up from school.

The invasion of privacy made my skin crawl.

How long had he watched us before Halloween night?

Or did he gather everything afterward? Most of the pictures looked like they came from security cameras around town.

I flipped to the next page. A complete history of my employment—not just at Reynolds & Associates, but every job I'd held since I was sixteen. Notes about my efficiency as a secretary, comments from former employers. There were even copies of my performance reviews.

The next section was about Mina—her birth certificate - how had he gotten that? - her medical records, notes from her teachers about her reading level and social skills. A photograph of her in her classroom, taken through a window, her blonde head bent over a coloring book.

"Oh my God." I brushed my fingers over the image of my daughter.

The thought of someone watching her, photographing her without my knowledge, made me physically ill.

When had this been taken? For what purpose?

I highly doubted Luca had done it, or even ordered it.

Was someone else monitoring Mina without me knowing?

The last pages detailed my family history—my parents' names and address in Alabama, notes about their estrangement from me.

A photograph of my childhood home. And most disturbing of all, a transcript of the last conversation I'd had with my mother, when she told me not to come home after I announced my pregnancy.

How could he possibly have that? I'd never told anyone the exact words she'd used—the cruel dismissal, the way she'd called me a disappointment, how she'd said Tyler had been right to leave me.

I felt violated in a way that transcended the physical. This man had peeled back the layers of my life, exposing every vulnerability, every pain, every struggle. And for what purpose?

I set the folder aside, feeling sick but determined to find something—anything—that might help us escape. Another folder caught my eye, this one labeled "Moretti Family—1996." Curiosity overrode caution, and I opened it.

Newspaper clippings filled the first several pages, headlines screaming tragedy. "MORETTI MANSION FIRE CLAIMS TWO LIVES." "BUSINESS TYCOON AND WIFE PERISH IN SUSPICIOUS BLAZE." "MORETTI HEIR, 7, ORPHANED IN FAMILY TRAGEDY."

I stared at a photo of a small boy with serious eyes, standing beside a much younger version of the man Luca had called his uncle. Mateo. The caption identified the child as "Luca Moretti, 7, sole survivor of the fire that claimed his parents' lives."

Seven years old. Just two years older than Mina was now. Despite everything, my heart ached at the thought of a child losing both parents so violently.

I continued reading, piecing together the story from the various articles.

The fire had been ruled "suspicious" but never officially declared arson.

The Moretti family had extensive business interests, some of which were rumored to be less than legitimate.

Speculation about enemies, business rivals, vendettas.

And through it all, photos of that solemn little boy, his face growing harder with each passing year captured in the media. The last image showed a teenage Luca, his expression completely closed off, eyes empty of emotion.

My fingers traced the outline of his young face. What happens to a child who loses everything? What kind of man grows from those ashes?

Beneath the newspaper clippings lay a small voice recorder, sleek and expensive-looking. A yellow sticky note attached to it read simply: "Caparelli—10/31."

Halloween night. The man in the alley.

My finger hovered over the play button. I shouldn't. I should put everything back and continue my search for Mina. But something compelled me to press it, to understand what had led to the violence we'd witnessed.

Luca's voice filled the quiet room, clinical and detached.

"Vincent Caparelli, terminated October 31st. Cause: repeated violations of security protocol, selling information to the Bianchi family regarding shipping routes.

Evidence collected over three months confirmed direct contact with Salvatore Bianchi on at least seven occasions.

Method: single blade, carotid artery. Location selected for minimal witness exposure.

Cleanup crew dispatched at 9:45 PM. No complications. "

No complications. Except for a woman and child wandering into the alley at precisely the wrong moment.

I pressed stop, my hand shaking. The cold, methodical way he described taking a human life—like it was just another business transaction, another item checked off a to-do list. This was the man who now held us captive, who had been kind to Mina, who had looked at me across the breakfast table with those unreadable eyes.

A soft click from the doorway made me freeze, the recorder still in my hand. Slowly, I raised my eyes.

Luca stood in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob.

His expression remained perfectly neutral as he surveyed the scene—me behind his desk, his private files open, the recorder in my hand.

He wore dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms covered in intricate tattoos I hadn’t noticed before.

Our eyes met across the room. I couldn't read his thoughts, couldn't tell if he was angry or amused or something else entirely. All I knew was that I was caught, cornered like prey, with nowhere to run.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a death sentence.