Chapter 3 - The Traitor's Footprints
Clara Rossi didn't hesitate. She shoved her revolver into the waistband of her canvas pants, grabbed a heavy canvas tool bag, and marched toward the back house.
"Maya!" Clara called out, her voice calm but urgent. "Get your shoes on and grab your backpack. We're taking a ride."
Adrian followed her into the residence. The house was modest—hardwood floors, simple furniture, and framed watercolor paintings of wildflowers on the walls. It smelled of cinnamon, old paper, and clean cotton. It was a home built with immense care and very little money.
Maya ran out of her bedroom holding a small red backpack with a stuffed rabbit sticking out of the zipper. "Are we going to get ice cream, Mom?"
"We're going to help Mr. Adrian with his car," Clara said quickly, strapping a pair of sturdy sneakers onto the girl's feet. She looked up at Adrian. "My shop truck is a '94 Ford F-250. It’s loud, but the engine is entirely mechanical. No computer chips. No GPS tracking."
"Does it run?" Adrian asked.
"It runs on diesel and spite," Clara said, pulling a set of heavy brass keys from a hook near the door.
They hurried back out through the shop bay. Clara opened the heavy door of the blue Ford pickup sitting behind the building. She tossed Maya into the middle of the bench seat, while Adrian took the passenger side, his large frame barely fitting inside the worn cab.
Clara turned the key. The heavy V8 diesel engine roared to life with a deep, mechanical clatter, shaking the entire truck. She threw the transmission into reverse and backed out into the clearing just as the sound of approaching tires echoed from the main road.
"Hold down," Adrian commanded, grabbing Maya gently by the shoulder and pressing her down toward the floorboards.
Through the trees at the mouth of the driveway, a massive black Cadillac Escalade turned slowly onto the gravel. Its windows were dark as obsidian, its chrome grill gleaming in the afternoon sun.
The Escalade stopped fifty yards away, blocking the driveway.
The driver’s side window rolled down two inches. Through the gap, Adrian caught a glimpse of a familiar face—a man wearing a tactical headset and a tailored dark grey suit.
Marcus Vale. His own chief of security.
Adrian’s jaw locked. Marcus had been with the Moretti family for twelve years. He knew every safehouse, every emergency code, and every security protocol Adrian used.
"Drive through the woods," Adrian ordered Clara, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying coldness. "To the old cider trail behind the shop."
Clara didn't ask questions. She slammed her foot onto the accelerator. The heavy Ford truck surged forward, its massive mud tires tearing through the brown grass as she yanked the wheel to the left, crashing through the wild berry bushes and onto a narrow, dirt logging road that led deep into the forest.
Behind them, the Escalade’s engine roared as Marcus attempted to turn the heavy luxury vehicle around on the narrow driveway.
Inside the bouncing cab of the pickup, Maya looked up from the floorboards, her eyes wide with fear. "Mom? Are those the bad shadows?"
"No, baby," Clara said, her knuckles white on the steering wheel as she navigated the rutted dirt track at forty miles an hour. "They're just noisy people. Stay down."
Adrian reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small, encrypted satellite transmitter—a device no larger than a deck of cards, hidden inside the lining of his coat. It was a emergency beacon that bypassed cellular networks entirely, connecting directly to a private military satellite network he maintained for high-level emergencies.
He flipped the safety guard and pressed the red toggle switch.
Across the state line, in a secure control room in downtown Manhattan, a silent alarm triggered on a high-definition monitor.
Adrian held the transmitter to his mouth. "Sam."
A sharp, static-laced voice came through the tiny speaker two seconds later. "Boss? Jesus Christ, your primary tracking signal died an hour ago! Where are you?"
"Marcus Vale is compromised," Adrian said flatly, his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror as pine branches slammed against the truck's windshield. "He sabotaged the sedan and tracked me to Dutchess County. He has at least four men with him."
There was a moment of absolute, stunned silence on the other end of the line. Sam Russo had served the Moretti family alongside Marcus for over a decade.
"Marcus?" Sam gasped, his voice tight with fury and disbelief. "Boss, he’s currently in the Manhattan office claiming he lost contact with your security detail at noon!"
"He’s fifty yards behind me in a black Escalade," Adrian replied coldly. "Bring six men from the Red Hook unit. Fully armed. Do not inform the office. Intercept us at the old cider mill off Route 9, two miles north of the county line."
"Understood, Boss. We're moving now. ETA twenty minutes."
Adrian cut the feed and slipped the device back into his coat. He looked across the cab at Clara.
Her face was pale, but her hands on the wheel were completely steady. She drove with the cold, precise skill of someone who had survived hard winters and dangerous roads her entire life.
"You knew my husband," Clara said, her voice barely audible over the roar of the diesel engine. "Didn't you?"
Adrian looked at her profile—the sharp jawline, the smudge of grease on her neck, the fierce, protective light in her dark eyes.
"I knew of him," Adrian admitted softly. "Eight years ago, I was managing the commercial real estate side of the family business. My father ran the docks. When Marco vanished, I asked questions."
"And what answers did you get, Mr. Moretti?" Clara asked, glancing at him for a brief second.
"I was told he moved to California to avoid union debts," Adrian said. He paused, his dark eyes darkening further. "I knew it was a lie. But my father was dying of throat cancer, and I did not have the authority to challenge his captains."
Clara let out a bitter, quiet breath. "Marco was murdered because he wouldn't let your father's men use the union pension fund to cover gambling losses in Atlantic City. He was buried somewhere under the concrete in Jersey."
May you like
Adrian didn't offer a hollow apology. In his world, apologies were worthless currency.
"Your husband was a good man, Clara," Adrian said, his voice deep and sincere. "And today, I am going to make sure his daughter stays safe."
