Page 101 of Mafia Kingdom

Like tonight.

A soft groan alerts me that I'm not alone. I spin around, heart pounding, to find a man slumped against the far wall. Relief washes over me as I recognize him—Ryan, one of Marco's security team. A quiet, efficient man with kind eyes that seemed at odds with his profession. Those eyes now look glassy with pain, his face pale beneath a sheen of sweat.

"Miss Gillespie," he manages, struggling to sit up straighter. Blood seeps through a makeshift bandage wrappedaround his left shoulder. "You need to hide—they've breached the perimeter."

"I know," I say, quickly moving to his side and checking his wound. The bleeding seems controlled, but he needs medical attention soon. "There were two of them in the east garden. They pursued me after I escaped through the passageway.”

"I need to reach Marco," I say, refocusing on the urgent matter at hand. "He's walking into a trap. The attack on the estate—it's a diversion."

Ryan's expression sharpens through his pain. "The communications are down in the main house, but this station has an independent system. Emergency only." He shifts, wincing, and points to a terminal in the corner. "It connects directly to the boss's inner circle. Security protocol five."

I help him to his feet, supporting his weight as we move to the terminal

Ryan lowers himself into the chair before the terminal, his fingers unsteady as he accesses the system.

"Here," Ryan says, bringing up a communications interface. "Enter code 5479, then your message. It'll go directly to Marco's secure phone. Short and clear—the system only allows sixty characters."

I stare at the keyboard, the weight of our situation crushing down on me. What can I possibly say in sixty characters that will convey the danger, the betrayal, the trap Marco is walking into? My fingers hover over the keys as I compose and discard several messages in my mind.

Finally, I type: ESTATE UNDER ATTACK. I’M FINE. YOU NEED TO GET OUT. TRAP.

Fifty-four characters. It will have to do.

I hit send, watching as the system processes the message. A small green confirmation light blinks once, then goes steady.

"Delivered," Ryan confirms, slumping back in his chair. The effort has clearly cost him, his face is even paler than before.

"What now?" I ask, helping him back to the wall where he can rest more comfortably. "How long until backup arrives?"

"Depends on where the boss is in the operation," Ryan says, his voice growing weaker. "Standard protocol is twenty minutes from message receipt to emergency response. But if they're already engaged at the O'Reilly compound..."

He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. If Marco and his team are already in combat at the compound, they won't be able to respond to our emergency signal. We're on our own.

A sudden movement on one of the still-functioning monitors catches my attention. A solitary figure darts between hedges, staying low, moving with practiced stealth.

"Ryan, look," I point to the screen. "Someone is there?" My heart hopes it’s Marco, but I know that isn’t possible.

Ryan squints at the grainy footage, then his eyes widen in recognition. "Tony," he breathes, relief evident in his voice. "That's Tony Cahill."

"Can we communicate with him?" I ask urgently. "Let him know we're here?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Not without alerting the others. They're monitoring all standard frequencies." He gestures to his tactical vest, retrieving a small object that looks like a modified flashlight. "But we have this."

And just like that, it’s a small flicker of hope.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Marco

THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE stands isolated miles from the Walsh estate; it offers the privacy I need.

Inside, Gerald sits bound to a metal chair, his body betraying him more effectively than any restraint I could have devised. His hands tremble uncontrollably, and the sickly yellow tint of his skin confirms what I already suspect: the old man is dying.

"I don't have much time," Gerald says, his voice barely above a whisper. "So I'll tell you what you need to know."

I stand before him, arms crossed, my patience wearing thin. "Start talking."

"Patrick is behind everything," Gerald confesses, pausing to catch his breath. "He's been planning this for months, ever since the doctors told him about the cancer."

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