Chapter 2 Untitled Chapter

I fell silent. All those months of preparation seemed wasted on this mission. My right hand instinctively moved toward my thigh garter, where the folding knife was hidden.

Then Lorenzo smiled. "Sorry, I just wanted to see your reaction. The Evelyn Russo I knew fifteen years ago would've laughed and hit my arm if I said that, but now you froze like a statue."

I tried to steady my breathing. "Sorry, it's my wedding day. I'm nervous."

"Of course," he said, now kissing my cheek. "Welcome to the Morreti family, Eve."

This wasn't a good sign. Lorenzo Morreti wasn't just playing around, he was testing whether I'd have the wrong reaction, and I'd nearly fallen for it.

The wedding ceremony ended. We walked out of the church amid applause. A black Rolls-Royce waited at the front door. Lorenzo opened the door for me.

"You'll love the mansion in Como. My father built it for my mother. Now it's ours," he said.

I nodded, pretending to be mesmerized. My fingers were already working, feeling through my gown to make sure all my equipment was still in place. The microphone, the tracker, the folding knife.

"You don't talk much," Lorenzo said.

"Sorry, I'm still nervous," I replied.

"The Evelyn Russo I knew back then was never nervous. She was a brave girl, and everyone had to bow to her. So why are you so different now?" Lorenzo asked.

I clenched my fists and tried to calm my racing heart. Second mistake. The real Evelyn Russo—whoever she was must have been a dominant personality. Meanwhile, I was trying to play the shy bride. I had to adjust.

"People can change, especially after losing their parents and living alone in Switzerland for years," I said.

Lorenzo turned his head, his eyes studying my face carefully.

"Fair enough. Sorry about your parents. That car accident was tragic."

I looked down. The intel the FBI provided: Evelyn Russo lost both her parents in a car crash in Switzerland three years ago. After that, she lived alone and rarely kept in touch with her family in Italy. The perfect reason why she couldn't be contacted to verify her identity, and the perfect reason why her family in Italy agreed to this arranged marriage without ever meeting her in person.

The mansion on Lake Como turned out to be more like a castle. Medieval stone walls rose four stories high, surrounded by olive and grape vineyards that stretched all the way to the lake's edge. Wrought iron gates opened automatically, revealing a vast courtyard with a marble fountain at its center.

"Welcome home," Lorenzo said, stepping out of the car and opening my door.

The courtyard was filled with dozens of men in black suits. Some carried weapons clearly visible at their waists. Others paced around with alert movements, their eyes scanning every corner. Three men with communication headsets stood near the main entrance.

"Mr. Moretti," greeted one of the burly men with a scar across his face. "All preparations are complete."

"Thank you, Nico. This is Evelyn, my wife."

Nico stared at me for a moment. His eyes were sharp and full of suspicion, then he gave a respectful nod but didn't smile.

"Welcome, Mrs. Moretti."

I smiled warmly, but in my mind, I was noting details. Nico was probably the head of security. He wore black gloves even though the weather wasn't cold a habit of someone who didn't want to leave fingerprints. That meant he often handled things that shouldn't be traced.

Lorenzo guided me through a long hallway with vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. The walls were covered in oil paintings from various centuries. The Morreti family clearly didn't mess around when it came to wealth.

"Our room is on the third floor," Lorenzo said, pointing to a spiral staircase with gold carvings. "But if you're tired, you can rest first. I have business until tonight."

"Business? On our wedding day?"

He smiled faintly. "Business never takes a day off, darling. You'll learn that sooner or later."

He left me in the master bedroom a room three times the size of my FBI apartment in New York. A carved teak bed, windows overlooking the lake, and a marble bathroom with a bathtub as big as a small swimming pool.

But I wasn't interested in luxury. I closed the door, made sure no one was watching, then opened the small clutch hidden in my gown. Inside were the devices I'd brought: a short-range tracker, a backup microphone, a micro-camera the size of a fingernail, and a signal scanner to detect hidden cameras.

I scanned the room. No cameras, no bugs. Lorenzo was either confident or careless—or maybe he'd deliberately left this room clean to give me a false sense of security.

I took off my gown and changed into something more practical black pants, a thin sweater, and rubber-soled sneakers that made no sound. The folding knife stayed in my pocket, the microphone on my collar, the micro-camera on my button.

Night fell, and the mansion fell silent except for the footsteps of guards in the hallways. I waited until two in the morning. Lorenzo still hadn't returned. According to Nico, he'd gone to Milan for an "emergency meeting."

This was my chance.

I opened the bedroom door slowly. The hallway was dark, lit only by emergency lights at the end. The mansion had four floors. But there was one door on the ground floor that had caught my attention when I entered earlier. A steel door with an electronic lock system. Two guards standing in front of it.

The basement door.

If Lorenzo was keeping human trafficking victims anywhere, it had to be there.

I descended the stairs as quietly as possible. I turned corner after corner, stopping at every angle to make sure no one was watching. The guards took shifts, but their pattern was predictable—every twelve minutes, there was a two-minute gap when the two guards changed shifts.

After twelve minutes passed, I ran in silence. Past the grand dining room, the library, the music room, until I reached that steel door. A two-minute window was extremely short. I pulled out my signal-coupling device from my pocket a small gadget that could mimic electronic access codes if there was another signal source nearby.

I attached it to the digital panel. The screen blinked. Now I just had to wait five seconds, and the door would open.

I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. Inside, a spiral staircase descended deeper into the basement. The walls were concrete, cold and damp. Fluorescent lights glowed dimly, illuminating a long hallway with several rooms on either side.

This had to be where they were hiding the victims.

First door—I opened it slowly. Assault rifles lined up neatly on metal racks.

Second door—pistols, ammunition, and hand grenades.

Third door—anti-personnel mines, rocket launchers, plastic explosives.

This was an armory.

Not a single victim. Not a single missing girl.

I stood still, cold sweat running down my back. This didn't make sense. Intel said Lorenzo was the mastermind behind the trafficking ring. Field evidence pointed to the same modus operandi as the network he controlled. So why was this an armory?

"Are you looking for something, my wife?"

The voice came from behind me, so close I could feel his breath on my neck.

I froze. Slowly, with movements that wouldn't seem threatening, I turned around.

Lorenzo Morreti stood behind me, a custom-designed rifle in his hands, the barrel aimed squarely at my head. His dark eyes were no longer warm like they were at the altar.

"Is wandering around at midnight your hobby? Or is there a specific reason a newlywed bride leaves her marriage bed at two in the morning?"

I steadied my breathing. Don't panic. I'm an FBI agent, and I've been through worse than this.

"I couldn't sleep. Your mansion is so big, and I got lost," I said.

"You got lost all the way to a heavily guarded underground armory?" Lorenzo asked, smiling.