Chapter 12 - THE VIPER'S NEST
I didn't wait for Dante to call.
I dialed his private encrypted satellite line immediately.
“Elena?” Dante’s voice came through the speaker instantly, sharp and alert despite the late hour. “Is everything alright?”
“No,” I said, my voice trembling as I clutched the polaroid photograph in my hand. “Someone was at the house tonight. They left a message.”
Silence stretched on the line for three agonizing seconds.
“What kind of message?” Dante asked, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly cold register.
“A photo of my mother. They have eyes on her at the Lake Geneva house, Dante. They said your debt is past due.”
A muffled curse echoed through the phone.
“Pack a bag,” Dante ordered instantly. “Do not leave the secure perimeter of the mansion until my tactical team arrives. I’m boarding a private jet back to Chicago right now. Do you hear me, Elena?”
“Dante, we can’t keep running from ghosts,” I argued, my anger overriding my fear. “Whoever sent this knows where my mother is. They’re drawing us out.”
“They want me,” Dante growled. “They think I’m weak because I married you. They’re about to find out how wrong they are.”
The line went dead.
I dropped my phone onto the dining table.
My hands were shaking, but the terror was rapidly turning into cold, calculating resolve.
I had spent years playing the role of the helpless maid, watching powerful men destroy my family from the shadows.
I was not going to sit in a panic room while someone threatened my mother again.
I walked briskly down the hallway toward Dante’s private study.
The door was locked, but Dante had taught me the emergency override code during our first week of marriage.
I punched the four-digit sequence into the digital keypad.
*Click.*
The heavy door swung open.
I walked straight to the antique oak desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and reached into the hidden compartment behind the wood paneling.
My fingers brushed against cold steel.
Dante’s compact custom Walther PPK pistol.
He had taught me how to handle it during our weekends at the private firing range in Wisconsin.
I slid the weapon into the pocket of my wool coat, checking the magazine clip to make sure it was fully loaded.
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If the Viper Syndicate wanted a war, they were going to get one.
And they wouldn't expect the target to shoot back.
