Chapter 8 - THE RESCUE AT THE OLD MILL
Though Valenti’s empire had been dismantled, a desperate, cornered rat is often the most dangerous.
Three days after the failed summit, Clara was taking Bruno for a brief walk near the edge of the estate’s pine forest. The snow had stopped, leaving the world wrapped in a blinding, silent white.
Suddenly, a loud, high-pitched mechanical noise echoed from the tree line.
Grant—who had allied with Valenti’s remaining rogue enforcers in a frantic bid to secure ransom money—leaped out from behind an old stone wall, wielding a high-powered tranquilizer rifle.
Before Bruno could react, Grant fired a heavy dart directly into Bruno’s shoulder. The massive Cane Corso let out a pained yelp, taking three unsteady steps before collapsing onto the snow as the powerful sedative instantly flooded his system.
“Bruno!” Clara screamed, dropping to her knees beside him.
Before she could stand, two masked men grabbed her arms from behind, forcing a chemically laced cloth over her mouth and nose. Clara fought desperately, kicking and thrashing, but the darkness quickly swallowed her whole.
When Clara woke up, her hands were bound behind her back with heavy rope. She was sitting on a cold wooden chair inside an abandoned stone flour mill on the far side of Lake Como.
Grant stood near a rusted stove, drinking cheap whiskey from a flask, while three armed Valenti henchmen checked their weapons near the doorway.
“Look who’s awake,” Grant sneered, walking over and grabbing Clara’s jaw tightly. “You really thought you were a princess, didn't you? Living in a mansion, sleeping with a mob boss. Once Moretti pays the ten-million-euro ransom for you, I’m taking my share and leaving Europe forever.”
Clara glared at him with cold, absolute fury. She didn't cry. She didn't beg.
“Matteo won't pay you a single cent, Grant,” Clara spat, her voice dripping with venom. “He will hunt you down, and he will tear you apart.”
Grant laughed nervously, but his hands shook as he took another swig of whiskey. “He doesn't know where we are! The roads are blocked!”
Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors of the mill exploded inward in a shower of splintered oak and iron hinges.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Suppressed gunshots echoed through the cavernous mill with terrifying precision. The three Valenti henchmen dropped to the stone floor before they even had time to raise their rifles.
Grant shrieked in terror, dropping his flask and grabbing a small pistol from his belt, holding it frantically against Clara’s temple.
“Don't come any closer!” Grant screamed into the darkness of the doorway. “I’ll shoot her! I swear to God I’ll shoot her!”
Through the dust and snow floating in the air walked Matteo Moretti.
He didn't look human. He looked like an ancient god of vengeance. In his right hand, he held a heavy black pistol. Beside him, despite his limp, walked Bruno—his dark eyes burning with protective rage, his heavy teeth bared in a terrifying growl.
“Put the gun down,” Matteo said. His voice wasn't loud, but it held a cold, absolute deadliness that made the temperature in the room drop twenty degrees.
“I want ten million euros!” Grant shrieked, his finger trembling violently against the trigger. “Give me the money or she dies!”
Clara looked into Matteo’s eyes across the dusty room. She saw no hesitation in him. She saw absolute certainty.
“Bruno,” Clara whispered softly, her voice barely audible. “Fetch.”
Bruno didn't need a command from his master. Recognizing the threat to his favorite human, the massive black hound lunged forward with explosive speed, launching his one-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame directly at Grant’s chest.
Grant let out a horrific scream as Bruno’s heavy paws slammed into him, knocking him backward onto the stone floor. The pistol flew from Grant’s hand, clattering harmlessly across the room.
Before Grant could move, Matteo stepped up, slamming his heavy boot onto Grant’s chest, pinning him to the ground like a pinned bug.
Matteo pointed the barrel of his gun directly between Grant’s terrified eyes.
“Please!” Grant sobbed, wetting his pants on the cold stone. “Please don't kill me! She was my wife!”
Matteo looked down at the pathetic creature beneath his boot with supreme disgust. “You are a disease. And diseases must be eradicated.”
“Matteo,” Clara’s voice called out softly from the chair.
Matteo froze. He turned his head toward her.
“Don't ruin your hands on him,” Clara said, her eyes calm and steady. “He isn't worth the bullet.”
Matteo stared at her for a long second. Then, slowly, he lowered the weapon. He looked down at the head of security standing in the doorway.
“Take him to the authorities in Milan,” Matteo ordered cold-bloodedly. “Ensure his gambling debts are fully exposed to his creditors in prison. He will spend the next thirty years in a concrete cell.”
As the guards dragged the wailing coward away, Matteo rushed to Clara, slicing through her ropes with a sharp pocketknife.
The moment her hands were free, Clara threw her arms around Matteo’s neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Matteo wrapped his heavy arms around her, holding her so tightly she could feel the thunderous beating of his heart against her cheek.
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“I’ve got you,” Matteo breathed into her hair, his voice trembling slightly. “I’ve got you, my love.”
Bruno trotted over, shoving his massive head under both of their hands, insisting on being included in the embrace.
