Page 100 of Mafia Kingdom

"Enough," the man hisses, his face inches from mine. "One more sound and I snap your neck, understand?"

I nod frantically, genuine terror replacing the controlled fear I've managed until now.

"Good girl," the intruder says, easing the pressure on my throat slightly. "Now here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk out of here with me, nice and quiet. You try to signal anyone, you try to run, you die. Simple as that."

His hand shifts from my mouth, ready to clamp down again at the slightest provocation. I gulp air, my mind is racing despite the terror. "Where's Tony?" I manage to ask. "The security team?"

A cold smile splits the man's face. "Bit tied up at the moment. Don't worry, they're alive. For now."

"Who are you?” I ask, playing for time while frantically trying to think of a way out of this.

The man doesn’t answer; instead, he hauls me to my feet and twists my arm behind my back painfully. "The O'Reillys send their regards. Now move."

Fear threatens to overwhelm me, but I force it down.

"Marco will kill you for this," I say as the man pushes me toward a side door I didn't even know existed. "Slowly. Painfully. You know that, right?"

"Maybe," the intruder concedes with disturbing nonchalance. "If he survives the night."

The casual statement sends ice through my veins. "What do you mean?"

He laughs, the sound utterly devoid of humor. "Did you really think extracting Gerald was the whole plan? That the compound was the only trap? Your boyfriend's walking into something much worse right now."

We reach the side door, the man pausing to check the exterior before pushing me through. A black SUV waits just beyond, engine running, another man at the wheel. No other security visible.

"Get in," my captor orders, shoving me toward the vehicle.

In this moment, clarity crystallizes through the terror. If I get into that car, I'm as good as dead. Maybe not immediately—they'll want to use me as leverage against Marco first—but eventually, inevitably. And worse, if what he said about Marco walking into another trap is true, my capture eliminates any chance of warning him.

I have one option. One chance.

As he pushes me toward the SUV, I pretend to stumble, dropping to one knee. He curses, reaching down to yank me back up—and I strike, driving my elbow into his groin with every ounce of strength I possess.

He doubles over, his grip loosening just enough. I scramble away, not toward the house where I'd be cornered,but toward the garden shed I know contains tools—potential weapons—and more importantly, the service tunnel Marco showed me during a security tour weeks ago—an escape route designed for exactly this scenario.

The man recovers faster than I expected, racing after me with a roar of fury. The driver leaps from the SUV, joining the pursuit. I push harder, lungs burning, muscles screaming, fear and determination propelling me forward.

I reach the shed seconds before them, slamming the door and throwing the simple bolt lock. It won't hold them long—the door is solid but not fortified—but I don't need long. Just enough time to reach the trapdoor hidden beneath the weathered workbench.

Outside, the men slam against the door, wood splintering under their combined weight. I throw aside the threadbare rug, fingers scrabbling at the concealed handle of the trapdoor. It gives way with surprising ease revealing the dark passage below.

The shed door bursts open just as I lower myself into the passage. Hands grab at my hair, my shirt, but momentum carries me downward. I land hard on the earthen floor of the tunnel, pain shooting through my ankle at the awkward impact.

Above me, the intruder shouts to his partner, both preparing to follow. But they don't know what I know—the tunnel has security features, including a manual lock on the inside of the trapdoor. I drag myself toward it, fingers closing around the metal bar just as the first man begins to descend.

With a strength born of desperation, I slam the bar into place, sealing the entrance. Muffled curses and pounding filter through, but the trapdoor holds firm—reinforced steel beneath its wooden exterior, designed to withstand much more than angry fists.

I allow myself one moment of relief before reality reasserts itself. I've escaped immediate capture, but I'm injured.

The tunnel stretches ahead, dimly illuminated by emergency lighting that activates automatically. My ankle throbs, possibly sprained from the fall. I have no weapon, no phone, no way to communicate with Marco or anyone loyal to him.

But I do know where this tunnel leads—to a maintenance shed on the property's edge, near where Marco keeps emergency vehicles fueled and ready. If I can reach it, if I can secure transportation.

I start moving, pushing through the pain, focusing on what needs to be done rather than the terror still coursing through my system. One step at a time. Survive. Escape. Warn Marco.

The tunnel feels endless, each step sending jolts of pain up my leg. But I keep going, driven by determination stronger than fear. I will not be used against Marco. I will not be the vulnerability that brings him down.

After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I reach the tunnel's end—another trapdoor, this one leading into a small concrete room filled with monitors and communication equipment—the estate's secondary security office, housed in an unassuming outbuilding far from the main house. Marco had called it their failsafe, a backup system separate from the main security grid in case of catastrophic breach.

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