Chapter 7 - The Dawn Protocol
At four-thirty in the morning, the rain had settled into a thick, misty drizzle that clung to the high glass windows of the Moretti estate. The sky outside was a bruised, dark slate blue, hinting at the coming dawn that felt less like a new day and more like an impending execution.
Lucy stood in the grand third-floor pantry, the stainless steel surfaces cold beneath her fingertips. She wore her crisp black maid’s dress, fresh white apron, and her hair pulled back into a neat, professional bun. To anyone looking through a sniper scope from the tree line half a mile away, she looked entirely routine.
Her hands, however, were shaking.
She picked up a silver coffee carafe, filling it with rich, dark roast coffee brewed from the industrial machine in the service kitchen. She placed two porcelain cups on a heavy silver tray, along with a small bowl of sugar cubes and a small pitcher of cream.
In her apron pocket, resting against her thigh, was a compact, steel-framed .22 revolver that Raphael had handed her thirty minutes ago in the bedroom.
"You know how to use one of these?" Raphael had asked her.
"My father took me target shooting at tin cans when I was twelve," Lucy had answered, holding the heavy, cold weapon with hesitation.
"Safety's off," Raphael had instructed grimly. "Point it at the chest, pull the trigger until it stops clicking. Don't talk, don't warning shot. Just shoot."
Lucy took a deep, steadying breath, smooth her apron, and picked up the heavy silver tray. She walked out into the silent, grand corridor.
The mansion felt like a tomb. The usual armed guards who patrolled the hallways—Paulie’s former squad—had been quietly relieved and disarmed by Raphael’s absolute loyalists, placed under guard in the lower stables. The corridors were now deserted, lit only by dim wall sconces that cast long, dancing shadows across the polished marble floors.
Lucy walked down the hall, her soft-soled shoes making no sound against the runner rugs. She reached the door of the master suite, knocked twice, and stepped inside.
Dominic was sitting at his heavy mahogany desk near the balcony windows. He was fully dressed now—a tailored black suit, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of the fresh medical bandage on his chest. A heavy leather holster was strapped across his chest, holding his dark steel Beretta 92FS.
He was staring at a bank of black-and-white security monitors hidden inside an open wall panel. On the screens, the front gates, the long winding driveway, and the grand courtyard were completely still.
"Anything?" Lucy asked quietly, setting the silver tray down on the corner of the desk.
"Not yet," Dominic said without turning his head. He poured himself a cup of black coffee—checking the pot himself out of habit now—and took a small sip. "Falcone is cautious. He won't send his main force until his spotters report that the house is operating under crisis mode."
"How do we make it look like a crisis?" Lucy asked.
Dominic turned his head, looking up at her with a glint of dark humor in his eyes. "You're going to scream, Lucy."
Lucy blinked. "I'm going to what?"
"In ten minutes, you're going to run out onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the courtyard," Dominic explained calmly. "You're going to drop a porcelain vase, let out a terrified shriek, and cry out that the boss isn't breathing. Dr. Ferraro will sprint out of the house toward his car, pretending to panic and abandon the estate."
"And Falcone’s spotters will see it," Lucy realized, the genius of the deception dawning on her. "They'll think the poison finally killed you, and the house is falling into chaos."
"Precisely," Dominic said. "When Ferraro 'flees,' Falcone will know the way is clear. He’ll send Julian’s phone a signal to bring the transition papers to the front gates. Except it won't be Julian meeting him."
"It will be Raphael," Lucy whispered.
"No," Dominic said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. "Raphael will be waiting at the gates with heavy ordnance. But Falcone won't stop at the gates. He’s an arrogant bastard. He’ll want to come inside this room personally, to look at my cold corpse and gloat before he signs the takeover manifest."
Lucy felt a cold shiver run down her spine. "So he's coming up here."
"He’s coming up here," Dominic confirmed. "And I will be waiting for him."
Dominic stood up from his desk. The sudden movement made him wince slightly, a tiny flicker of pain crossing his face as his shoulder strained against the bandage, but he forced himself straight. He stepped up to Lucy, his massive frame towering over her, shielding her from the cold light of the security monitors.
He reached out, his hand gently lifting her chin so she had to look directly into his eyes. His skin was warm now, the fever gone, replaced by a steady, terrifying heat.
"Lucy," he murmured, his thumb lightly brushing across her jawline. "Once the shooting starts downstairs, you go into the panic room behind the wardrobe. You lock the steel door from the inside and you do not open it for anyone except me or Raphael. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," Lucy said, her voice barely a whisper. She could feel the heat radiating from his chest, smell the dark scent of cedar, leather, and fresh coffee clinging to him. "What if... what if it's not you or Raphael who comes back up those stairs?"
Dominic’s expression darkened, his thumb lingering on her cheek for a fraction of a second longer before he pulled his hand away.
"Then you use that gun in your apron," Dominic said softly. "And you make sure the man who opens that door regrets stepping into my house."
Dominic turned back to the desk, hitting a switch on the internal comms panel. "Raphael. Position the men in the grand foyer. The theater is open."
"Copy that, Boss," Raphael’s crackling voice came through the speaker. "We're in position behind the second-floor pillars. Let the maid give the performance of her life."
Dominic looked at Lucy, giving her a single, firm nod. "Go, Lucy. Give them a show."
Lucy swallowed the lump in her throat, stepped out of the master suite, and walked toward the grand staircase overlooking the courtyard. She reached the large ceramic vase sitting on a marble pedestal near the window, took a deep breath, and shoved it off the ledge.
The porcelain shattered against the marble floor with a sound like a gunshot.
Lucy threw her head back and let out a blood-curdling, desperate shriek that echoed across the entire estate: "Dr. Ferraro! Help! He’s not breathing! Oh God, Mr. Moretti isn't breathing!"
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Through the tall glass windows, far down near the dark tree line at the perimeter of the estate, a pair of night-vision binoculars flashed briefly in the dim morning light.
The trap was sprung.
