Page 99 of Mafia Kingdom

Sasha

THE ESTATE IS eerily quiet when we return. Tony escorts me from the command vehicle to the house. His eyes scan continuously.

"I thought it would feel different. After a successful mission."

"It's not over yet," he reminds me. "Not until everyone's back safely, including the boss."

"How long before Marco returns?" I ask, following Tony through the dimly lit corridor toward the main part of the house.

"Hard to say. Debriefing Gerald could take hours, depending on his condition, his willingness to cooperate." He checks his watch. "I'd estimate three hours minimum before they head back to the estate."

Three hours of waiting, of uncertainty. The thought settles heavily, but I push away the instinctive anxiety. Marco can handle himself. He's survived far worse than an interrogation with a dying traitor.

"You should try to rest," Tony suggests as we reach the main hall. "It's been a long day, and tomorrow will likely be just as demanding."

He's right, of course. The adrenaline that carried me through the operation is fading, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. But the thought of sleeping while Marco is still out there, still potentially in danger, seems impossible.

"I think I'll just make some tea," I say instead. "Try to decompress a bit."

Tony nods, understanding. "I'll be in the security office monitoring communications if you need anything. Two men will remain stationed in the hall."

The precautions should be reassuring, but they only underscore the persistent danger, the reality that even here, in what I've come to think of as our sanctuary, complete safety is an illusion.

After Tony leaves, I make my way to the kitchen, finding comfort in the familiar routine of filling the kettle, selecting tea, and warming the pot. Small domestic actions that ground me amid the chaos of the past twenty-four hours.

As I wait for the water to boil, I check my phone—a new one Marco provided after my original was destroyed during the attack on the estate. No messages from Lily or Karen yet, which is expected given they're likely still in transit to Kerry. Marco arranged for them to call once they safely arrived at the property, not before.

The kitchen feels cavernous around me, designed for a full staff rather than a solitary woman making tea at midnight. In the silence, my mind replays scenes from the operation—the tense wait in the command vehicle, the frantic evacuation when Gerald warned of explosives, the massive fireball that confirmed his claim. How close Marco came to losing Damien and his entire team. How easily it could have been Marco himself walking into that trap.

The kettle whistles, jolting me from increasingly dark thoughts. I prepare the tea methodically, focusing on each stepas a form of meditation. As I carry my cup to the small table tucked into the kitchen's corner, a noise from the hallway catches my attention—footsteps.

My pulse quickens, but I remember Tony saying there was security in the hallway. I set down the teacup,move silently toward the door, listening intently. The footsteps have stopped.

"Hello?" I call, hating the slight tremor in my voice. "Tony?"

No response.

Before I can decide whether to retreat further into the kitchen or make a dash for the security office, the door swings open. A man I've never seen before stands in the doorway—tall, solidly built, with the cold eyes and controlled posture that mark all of Marco's associates. But something about him is different, an unfamiliar energy that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

"Ms. Gillespie," he says, his accent marking him as not local. Northern, perhaps. "Sorry to disturb you so late."

"Who are you?" I demand, backing away instinctively. "Where's Tony?"

"Tony's been called away," the man replies smoothly. "Security issue at the perimeter. Nothing to worry about."

The explanation might sound plausible, but every instinct screams danger. Tony wouldn't leave me unguarded, not after his careful escort into the house, not with Marco still absent. And he certainly wouldn't send a stranger to inform me.

"I don't believe you," I say flatly, eyes darting around the kitchen for anything that might serve as a weapon. "Tony would have told me himself."

The man's expression shifts, dropping the veneer of professionalism to reveal something harder, colder. "Smart girl," he acknowledges. "But it doesn't really matter whether you believe me or not. You're coming with me either way."

As he steps forward, I grab the closest object—the kettle, still hot from boiling water—and hurl it at him with all my strength. He dodges, but not completely, hot water splashing across his shoulder and chest. He curses, momentarily distracted by the pain, giving me the opening I need.

I bolt past him, racing toward the hallway where I last saw Tony's security detail. But the corridor is empty—no guards, no help.

Footsteps pound behind me as the intruder recovers. I sprint toward the security office, lungs burning, panic clawing at my throat. If I can reach Tony, if I can just get to someone loyal to Marco—

A hand grabs my hair, yanking me backward with brutal force. I crash to the floor, pain exploding through my shoulder and hip. Before I can scream, a large hand clamps over my mouth, another vise-like grip around my throat.

---