Chapter 2 - The Art of the Trap
Within four minutes, Tessa and a specialized two-man bomb squad from Matteo’s private security detail stood inside the dimly lit garage.
Tessa knelt beside the rear axle, her portable tactical scanner glowing with faint amber light against the dark concrete. She held a fiber-optic scope in her right hand, her breath shallow as she peered beneath the bumper.
“It’s military-grade C4, Boss,” Tessa whispered over her comm-link, her face illuminated by the green readout of the detonator relay. “Rigged with a dual-redundant receiver. A remote radio signal paired with an internal timer set for eight-ten tonight. If the remote fails, the timer finishes the job.”
Matteo stood ten feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the silver lunchbox.
“Can you disarm it?”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Tessa replied, sliding a small toolkit from her belt. “But here’s the problem: the detonator is wired with an anti-tamper mercury tilt switch. The second I lift the casing off the magnet, if the angle shifts by even half a millimeter, it triggers instantly.”
Matteo’s mind operated with terrifying clarity. He didn't want the bomb disarmed. Not yet.
If they dismantled it quietly, the person who planted it—the person counting down the hours until eight-ten—would simply slip away into the shadows, waiting for another opportunity. A wounded animal leaves a trail. A trap spring that doesn't snap gives the hunter no chance to catch his prey.
“Don't disarm it, Tessa,” Matteo said quietly.
Tessa froze, her wrench hovering an inch from the casing. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Boss? Are you insane? This thing can level half the courtyard.”
“I didn't say leave it active,” Matteo corrected, stepping forward. “Disengage the wireless receiver. Cut the remote uplink so they can't trigger it from outside the gates. But leave the internal timer running.”
Tessa blinked, processing the tactical brilliance of the command. “You want to let them think it’s armed.”
“I want them to watch me walk out to the car at eight-ten,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a register that made even his most seasoned operatives shudder. “I want them to sit back, smile, and wait for the fireball. And then I want to see whose face turns white when I drive right past them.”
“Understood,” Tessa murmured, her fingers moving with surgical precision. A tiny click echoed from beneath the chassis as the radio receiver was plucked from the circuit and dropped into her metal tray. “The remote is dead. But the timer is ticking down to eight-ten. Anyone watching the monitor or holding a secondary detonator will think everything is going according to plan.”
“Good.” Matteo turned away from the car. “Where are Camille and Rafael right now?”
“Miss Camille is in her suite on the second floor, reviewing seating charts with the florist,” Tessa reported, standing up and wiping grease from her gloves. “Mr. Rafael is in the east wing executive office, reviewing the shipping manifests from the Port of Chicago.”
Matteo felt a heavy, sickening knot twist in his stomach.
Rafael. The man who had shared his whiskey, mourned over Sofia’s grave, and sat at his right hand for over a decade. If Lila’s innocent ears had caught the truth—that Rafael had conspired with Camille to murder him and frame it as an echo of Sofia’s death—then the betrayal cut deeper than any knife ever could.
“Keep this garage locked down,” Matteo ordered. “Nobody enters. If anyone asks about the car, tell them it’s being serviced for a fuel-line issue.”
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“A fuel-line issue,” Tessa repeated, a grim smile touching her lips. “A subtle touch, Boss.”
Matteo turned on his heel and walked back toward the grand manor, his mind racing through a chessboard of moves. He had six hours until eight-ten. Six hours to dismantle an empire of deceit from the inside out.
