Chapter 3 Untitled Chapter

I forced myself to keep my eyes locked on his. No blinking, no showing fear. That was the first rule of undercover work. Your enemy attacks when they see doubt.

"I told you, I got lost," I said.

"Hm."

Lorenzo's gaze dropped to the electronic panel on the door, which was still blinking softly. A small green light indicated the access system had just been bypassed. Then his eyes shifted to my hand, half hiding something in the fold of my sweater. The signal coupling device, which I had not fully tucked into my pocket yet.

But instead of getting angry, Lorenzo let out a long sigh.

"I was wrong," he said.

I frowned. "Wrong?"

"I thought my wife was just curious about her new home. Turns out she's far braver than I imagined," he said.

Slowly, with an almost casual motion, he lowered the rifle barrel that had been aimed at my head. The muzzle now pointed at the concrete floor. I still did not move. People like Lorenzo Morreti did not lower their weapons without a reason. This could be a trap or another test.

"Do you always greet guests with a rifle?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm even though my throat felt like it was burning.

"Only guests who break into my armory at two in the morning with electronic lock picking equipment."

He walked past me as if nothing had happened. His steps were steady, with no signs of anger or excessive wariness.

The man stopped in front of a large wooden crate in the corner of the room. With practiced movements, he opened the lid. Inside were rifles of various models and eras. Some looked brand new, gleaming with lubricating oil. Others seemed like antique collections, with carved wood and metal starting to darken.

"My grandfather started collecting weapons since World War II. My father continued the habit. He said the Morreti family must never run out of bullets in times of crisis."

He took a silver plated pistol from the crate. Intricate engravings adorned the grip.

"What were you expecting to find in this room, Eve?"

I did not answer. My lips were sealed tight.

Lorenzo smiled faintly. "People?"

I was startled by the question.

"Or maybe chained women?" he asked.

How could he guess? Was I that easy to read? Or had this all been planned from the very beginning? Every step I took, every decision I made, perhaps all of them had been predicted by him.

"I do not understand what you mean," I said.

"No?"

He stepped closer. Now there were only inches between us. I could smell cedar wood and tobacco on his body. I could see the fine veins in his jet black eyes.

"You looked so disappointed when you only found weapons. As if you were expecting something else, something far more horrific," he said.

I forced a small smile. The smile I had learned in undercover training. Not too wide, not too thin, right in the middle between confident and nervous.

"I am just scared," I said.

"Scared of weapons?"

I nodded slowly. "Scared of living in a mafia house."

For a few seconds, the room fell silent. Just the sound of our breathing and water dripping from a pipe in the ceiling. Then Lorenzo let out a low chuckle.

"Finally, an honest answer tonight."

He turned and walked toward the exit. His black jacket fluttered slightly. "Come on."

I did not move. "Where?"

"If you want to know the Morreti family, there is one thing you need to understand first." He did not turn around, but his shoulders seemed tense.

I followed him out of the armory. The basement hallway felt colder than before. Our footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, creating an eerie rhythm that made my skin crawl even more.

When we reached the stairs leading to the ground floor, Lorenzo stopped. His hand rested on the wrought iron railing. For a few seconds, he said nothing.

"The Morreti family runs a lot of illegal businesses," he said.

I stayed quiet, waiting.

"We smuggle weapons to various groups in Eastern Europe. We launder money from those sales through shell companies in Switzerland and Panama. We bribe politicians in three countries to keep their eyes off our operations."

All of that matched the FBI reports. All of it I already knew from months of briefings, but hearing it directly from the perpetrator's mouth felt different.

"We also have ties with several mafia families in Russia and Asia. We exchange goods and services. Sometimes information, sometimes protection."

He climbed the first step. I followed, a few steps behind him.

"But I want you to understand one thing, Eve."

He stopped at the top step. His eyes stared straight ahead, not turning toward me.

"We do not sell women."

I lifted my head. Our gazes met in the large mirror hanging at the end of the hallway. Our reflections stood facing each other. Two dark silhouettes under the dim crystal lights.

"Women and children are human beings who must be protected," Lorenzo said.

The words sounded too sincere for a liar, but I quickly reminded myself. Mafia were master manipulators. They spent their entire lives learning to lie. Do not believe a word they say.

We returned to the main floor. The grand mansion was still silent, lit only by dim night lights.

But Lorenzo was not done. He suddenly turned left, opening a large carved teak door. Inside was a private shooting range.

The walls were lined with thick rubber. Various paper targets shaped like humans stood in a row at the far end. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling turned on automatically.

"Have you ever held a gun?" Lorenzo asked.

I shook my head. "Never."

Of course I was lying. I was one of the best shooters at the FBI academy. I still held the record for precision shooting from fifty meters. But Evelyn Russo did not know how to shoot. Evelyn Russo was a spoiled girl from Switzerland who spent her life in designer boutiques and expensive cafes.

Lorenzo took a semi automatic pistol from a wall safe. Without warning, he handed it to me.

"Hold it."

"What for?" I asked.

"Because you are my wife."

"That is a strange reason."

"It actually makes perfect sense." He loaded a magazine into another identical pistol, his own. "Being Mrs. Morreti is not just about wearing expensive gowns and attending charity galas in Milan."

The first round fired into the shooting range.

"One day, someone might try to kill you. Could be at the supermarket, could be in your own bedroom. The mafia does not have rules about time and place," Lorenzo said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Do you think a gun will solve everything?"

"No." He smiled faintly. "But it increases your odds from zero to maybe twenty percent."

He stood behind me, too close. The scent of tobacco and cedar wood grew stronger. His hands slowly adjusted my fingers on the grip. Thumb here. Index finger on the trigger. The other three fingers gripping firmly.

My body tensed. I was acutely aware that this man was extremely dangerous. If he discovered my identity now, no one could save me. Miller was in Italy, but hours away. The FBI Director was in Washington, and Lorenzo had thirty armed men just above our heads.

"Do not lock your elbow," he whispered, his low voice near my ear. "The recoil will throw you off balance."

I followed his instruction. Elbow slightly bent. Shoulders relaxed.

"Straighten your shoulders. Align them with the target."

I did.

"Breathe in."

I took a long breath.

"Then release it slowly before you pull the trigger."

I squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

The shot went wide, way wide. Almost hit the ceiling.

Lorenzo laughed softly behind me. "Still terrible, but not as bad as I thought."

"I have really never shot before," I pretended to be embarrassed.

"We will see in a few months."

He took the pistol from my hand with a gentle motion. His fingers brushed against mine for a moment.

Bang!

The bullet hit dead center of the target.

Bang!

The second shot pierced the same hole, widening it slightly.

Bang!

The third shot barely made a new hole. The bullet went in through the exact same opening.

I pretended to be amazed, my mouth slightly open. But what I was really thinking was something else. His hands did not tremble at all. His movements were too trained, too automatic. This man had killed many people. I could tell from the way he handled a weapon.

But suddenly, he bit my neck. My body went rigid, and I could not move. His hands began to roam all over my body.

"We have wasted too much time tonight. I want you. I want to hear your sighs when you are beneath me. I want your body," he said, his voice thick with desire.