Page 22 of Devil’s Embrace (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #10)

He shook his head. “If anything went wrong, no one would know to look for her. She’d eventually die in there. Plus, like I said, it’s not as safe as the other location. It’s possible someone could still get to her.”

Before either of us could make a move, I heard a familiar voice through the door. “Boss, I’m here to help. Hall is clear.”

Luca stared at the door a moment before unblocking it. He let Antonio in, then explained our situation and the plan. After locking Mina in the panic room and stationing Antonio outside to protect her, we left to find Mateo, Jr.

We moved through the mansion like ghosts.

The distant sounds of gunfire had faded to an eerie silence.

His men reported positions letting us know Junior had gathered his forces in the grand foyer—a power play, choosing the very space where his father had died to make his stand. Poetic, in a twisted sort of way.

"He wants an audience." We descended a servant's staircase to avoid detection. "A proper succession ceremony with witnesses."

"And we're giving him what he wants?" I kept my voice low, the gun Luca had given me still gripped tightly in my hand.

"We're giving him what he thinks he wants." Luca's eyes were cold, focused. "There's a difference."

We paused at the bottom of the stairs. I could hear voices now—the rumble of men speaking in the foyer just beyond the door. Luca turned to me, his expression suddenly intense. "You don't have to do this. You can go back to Mina."

I thought of my daughter, her small face tear-streaked but brave as we'd sealed her into the panic room with promises to return. Then I thought of the men who had come for her, who would still come for her if we didn't end this now.

"I'm seeing this through." I checked my weapon as I'd watched Luca do. "Let's finish it."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He nodded once, then pushed open the door.

The grand foyer looked like a war zone. Bullet holes pockmarked the marble columns.

The crystal chandelier that had once cast dancing lights across the floor hung at a precarious angle, several of its strands shattered.

Blood stained the imported Italian tile in dark, accusatory puddles.

And in the center of it all stood a man who could only be Mateo, Junior.

He was younger than I'd expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with the same cold blue eyes as his father but none of the age lines.

He wore an impeccably tailored dark gray suit with gold embroidery at the lapels—ostentatious, the kind of style that screamed of poor taste and desperation.

Six armed men flanked him in a loose semicircle, weapons held at ready positions.

Mateo, Junior smiled when he saw Luca, a predatory baring of teeth that held no warmth. "Cousin. I was beginning to think you'd gone to ground like a frightened rabbit."

"Sorry to disappoint." Luca kept his tone casual as we stepped fully into the foyer. "I was busy cleaning up your father's mess. Again."

Mateo, Junior's smile tightened. His gaze shifted to me, eyes raking up and down in a way that made my skin crawl.

"And you must be the woman who's caused all this trouble.

Quite pretty, I suppose, in a common sort of way.

" His lips curled. "Though I expected something more impressive to make the great Devil himself go soft. "

"You talk too much," I said before I could stop myself. "Must run in the family."

One of Mateo's men moved forward, hand raising as if to strike me, but Junior stopped him with a gesture. "Spirited, too. I can see the appeal, cousin, though I'd have kept her for amusement, not protection."

Luca stepped forward, positioning himself subtly between the man and me. "You made a mistake coming here, Mateo. Your father already tried this play. You saw how it ended for him."

"My father was a great man." The veneer of sophistication cracked slightly at his words. "But he made one critical error—he let you live when you were seven years old. A mistake I won't repeat. You've gone soft, cousin. The Devil my father raised wouldn't risk everything for a woman and her brat."

I tightened my grip on the gun, rage boiling beneath my skin at the casual reference to Mina. Luca's hand brushed against mine, a silent warning to wait. To watch. To let Junior keep talking.

"The family deserves better than a leader who abandons tradition for sentiment." He seemed to be warming to his theme. "The other families are already laughing at us. The great Moretti empire, brought low by a woman and a child."

"If tradition means threatening children, perhaps tradition needs to change." Luca’s voice carried across the foyer.

Several of Mateo's men shifted uncomfortably at that.

I noticed the doubt in their eyes, the glances they exchanged.

Some of them held back, their loyalty wavering, their eyes shifting with doubt.

Not all of them committed to the coup, and I could already see who might break first. Luca saw it too, I realized.

He was playing for the audience as much as confronting Junior.

"Change?" Mateo, Junior laughed, the sound echoing harshly off the marble. "This business isn't built on change. It's built on blood and fear and respect. Things you've forgotten."

He gestured, and one of his men stepped forward with a silver case. Junior flipped it open to reveal an ornate pistol nestled in velvet—the same silver gun his father had carried. Where had he gotten it? Surely Luca had disposed of it.

"This should have been my father's final moment—passing his legacy to me, not dying on this floor at your hands." He lifted the gun, examining it in the light. "I'm here to correct that mistake."

"You're here to die. Just like your father." Luca sounded almost bored, his tone flat.

The statement hung in the air between them, a challenge impossible to ignore. Junior's face contorted with rage. He raised the silver gun, pointing it directly at Luca's chest.

"I think not, cousin. Drop your weapon."

For a heart-stopping moment, I thought Luca might actually comply. His expression gave nothing away as he slowly lowered his gun to the floor. I started to protest, but a flicker in his eyes silenced me. He had a plan. I had to trust him.

"Kneel," Junior ordered, drunk on his apparent victory.

"You sound just like him." Luca slowly sank to one knee. "Same inflection. Same delusions of adequacy."

Mate, Junior's face flushed with anger. He stepped closer, the silver gun unwavering. "Any last words before I send you to join your parents?"

"Just one," Luca replied calmly. "Duck."

Confusion crossed Mateo, Junior's face—a split second of hesitation that gave me the opening I needed. My hand closed around a crystal decanter on a side table, and I hurled it with all my strength. It shattered at Junior's feet, showering him with glass and the remaining whiskey.

He staggered back, momentarily blinded and disoriented. Luca moved with the deadly grace of a predator, surging upward from his kneeling position. His fist connected with Junior's jaw with a sickening crack. The silver gun fired wild, the bullet embedding itself in the ceiling.

Chaos erupted as Junior's men reacted, but they were too slow. Luca had already closed the distance, delivering a vicious blow to Junior's solar plexus that doubled him over. I raised my gun, covering Luca as he fought, keeping the other men at bay.

"Stay back!" I shouted, my aim shifting between potential threats. To my surprise, most of them hesitated, unsure whose orders to follow as the power dynamic shifted before their eyes.

Luca and Junior grappled on the blood-stained marble, trading blows with savage intensity.

For all his fine clothes and polished veneer, Junior fought dirty—biting, clawing, going for Luca's eyes.

But Luca fought with the cold precision of someone trained from childhood in the art of violence.

Each strike found a vulnerable point. Each movement had purpose.

I watched, my breath caught in my throat, as Luca gained the advantage. A vicious uppercut sent Junior sprawling backward. The silver gun skittered across the floor, coming to rest against a fallen chair.

Junior scrambled for it, but Luca was faster. His boot came down on Junior's wrist with a sharp crack that echoed through the foyer. The man howled in pain, but the sound cut off abruptly as Luca's fist connected with his throat.

"Yield," Luca demanded, standing over his fallen opponent. "Call off your men. Leave and never return."

Junior looked up, blood streaming from his nose and a split lip. He spat a mouthful of crimson onto the floor. "Go to hell."

"After you." Luca picked up the silver gun.

I held my breath, waiting for the shot, but instead, Luca looked around the foyer at Junior's men. "This is your one chance. Drop your weapons and leave with your lives, or die with him."

To my amazement, they obeyed. Guns clattered to the floor as Junior watched in disbelief.

"Cowards!" he screamed at them. "Traitors! My father will—"

"Your father is dead," Luca cut him off. "By my hand. Just as you're about to be."

Junior's eyes widened as Luca aimed the silver pistol at his head. "Wait," he gasped, raising his unbroken hand. "We're family. Blood."

"So were my parents," Luca replied, his voice empty of emotion.

The shot echoed through the foyer, impossibly loud in the sudden silence. Junior's body jerked once, then went still, a small, neat hole in the center of his forehead. The gold embroidery on his suit jacket glittered obscenely in the light streaming through shattered windows.

I lowered my gun slowly, my heart pounding in my ears. Around us, Junior's men stood frozen, waiting to see what would happen next. Luca's gaze swept over them, cold and assessing.

"Anyone else care to challenge my leadership?" he asked, his voice carrying to every corner of the destroyed foyer.

Silence answered him. One by one, the men kneeled, heads bowed in submission. The display should have sickened me—this medieval ritual of fealty in a modern mansion filled with dead bodies. Instead, I felt only relief. Relief that it was over. Relief that Mina would be safe.

Luca turned to me, the silver gun still in his hand. Blood spattered his white shirt, though whether it was his or Junior's, I couldn't tell. His gaze searched mine, looking for judgment, for fear, for rejection.

I held his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. I had made my choice when I'd thrown that decanter. When I'd stood by his side against Junior. When I'd accepted the gun he'd offered me and used it to protect what was mine.

"It's done." His words were soft, meant only for me to hear.

"Yes. It's done."

Around us, Luca's men emerged from doorways and corridors, securing the space, checking the fallen, reporting status in clipped, professional tones. Mateo was dead. His son was dead. The Moretti family had a new undisputed leader.

And that leader was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.

"Let's get Mina." I handed him back the gun he'd given me. "She'll be worried."

He nodded, placing a hand at the small of my back as we turned away from the carnage. The gesture was proprietary, protective, intimate. I should have pulled away. Instead, I leaned slightly into his touch, allowing myself to take comfort in his strength, just for this moment.

Tomorrow I would think about what all this meant—the blood on our hands, the choices we'd made, the future stretching before us. But for now, I had only one thought: My daughter was safe. And the man beside me had helped make it so.