Chapter 2 - The Gates of Blackwood Manor
The Duca family estate sat on forty acres of manicured woodland along the Hudson River.
Iron gates twenty feet tall parted silently as Mia’s ten-year-old compact sedan rattled up the cobblestone drive.
Security cameras equipped with thermal imaging tracked her vehicle from hidden perches in the ancient oak trees.
She parked between a custom armored Maybach and a midnight-black Aston Martin.
Her rusted quarter-panel stood out like an open wound in the sea of luxury.
She stepped out wearing a crisp charcoal suit, her dark hair bound into a functional knot at the base of her skull.
Before she could take five paces, the front doors opened.
A man built like an industrial refrigerator stepped onto the veranda.
He wore an earpiece, an Italian suit that strained against his shoulders, and an expression of pure contempt.
""You're in the wrong zip code, sweetheart,"" he called down.
""Delivery entrance is around the back near the service garages.""
Mia reached inside her coat, moved with slow precision, and displayed her agency credentials.
""Mia Callaway, primary close-protection detail from Varro Security.""
The man stared at the badge, then barked out a harsh laugh.
""Hensley has finally lost his mind.""
""I am Captain Marco Silva, chief of estate security.""
""Don Lorenzo gave strict instructions regarding the personnel authorized to breathe near his son.""
""And you are definitely not what was ordered.""
""Take it up with your payroll department, Captain,"" Mia replied smoothly.
""Until Hensley sends a replacement, my contract is active and binding.""
Marco stepped aside with a sneer, gesturing toward the towering oak entrance.
The interior of Blackwood Manor smelled of beeswax, vintage cognac, and raw authority.
At the far end of the grand gallery sat Lorenzo Duca.
He was in his late fifties, with silvered hair swept back cleanly and posture that belonged to an old-world monarch.
He didn't look at her when she entered.
He was busy cleaning the nib of a fountain pen with a silk handkerchief.
""Marco,"" Lorenzo said softly, the silence of the room amplifying every syllable.
""Why is there a girl standing on my Persian rug?""
""Agency sent her, Don Lorenzo,"" Marco replied from behind her.
""Says the male contractors were incapacitated.""
Lorenzo finally lifted his eyes.
They were pale gray, devoid of warmth, and heavy with decades of absolute command.
""Leave us, Marco.""
The captain bowed his head and vanished down the corridor.
Lorenzo laid the pen down on the glass desk.
""You have thirty seconds to explain why I should not have you escorted off my land and Varro stripped of their city licenses.""
Mia did not blink.
She did not fidget with her jacket.
""Your northwest perimeter wall has a blind spot created by the third weeping willow,"" Mia stated cleanly.
""Your security guard at the gatehouse carries a sidearm with the thumb safety engaged, which adds four-tenths of a second to his draw time.""
""The surveillance camera covering this gallery has a two-degree tilt error, leaving the French doors unmonitored for three seconds during its sweep.""
""And the man standing behind the library curtain to your left has been holding his breath since I took my third step.""
A dead silence fell across the expansive room.
The heavy velvet curtain beside the bookshelf shifted.
Matteo Duca walked out into the light.
He was dressed in a charcoal turtleneck and tailored trousers, holding a leather-bound ledger.
His dark eyes scanned Mia from her polished boots to the steady line of her mouth.
""She's observant,"" Matteo murmured, his tone dry as sand.
""Observant does not stop a nine-millimeter slug, Matteo,"" Lorenzo snapped without looking at his son.
""Observation is the only thing that prevents the round from being fired in the first place, Don Lorenzo,"" Mia answered.
Lorenzo rose to his feet.
He stood tall, radiating an imposing aura that had made district attorneys surrender their careers.
""My son is the future of this family,"" the patriarch said coldly.
""The Ferrettis are looking for a crack in our armor.""
""If they see a five-foot-six girl trailing him through Manhattan, they will smell weakness.""
""They will attack before the week is out.""
""Let them attack,"" Mia said.
Matteo leaned against a marble pillar, a faint, sardonic smirk touching his lips.
""Father, let her stay.""
Lorenzo turned a sharp glare toward his heir.
""This is not a game, Matteo.""
""I know it isn't,"" Matteo replied, his gaze locking onto Mia's.
""The boardroom at the harbor authority meets on Thursday.""
""The Ferretti family has three board seats.""
""If I show up with four bodybuilders in tactical vests, it screams panic.""
""If I show up with a personal assistant who can shoot, it shows total contempt for their threats.""
Lorenzo stared at his son for a long minute, then turned back to Mia.
""Forty-eight hours,"" Lorenzo said, his voice flat as an executioner's verdict.
""One misstep, one hesitation, one shattered piece of china, and you leave this estate in the trunk of a car.""
Mia gave a crisp, formal nod.
""Understood, Mr. Duca.""
Matteo walked past her toward the foyer, pausing just close enough for her to catch the scent of cedarwood and black pepper.
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""Try to keep up, bodyguard,"" he whispered.
""I move fast, and I don't wait for clumsy girls.""
