Part 6: The Counter-Strike
"Sir?" The head of security finally spoke, his voice low and tight. "Do you want me to call the authorities? We have everything on tape. Grand larceny, attempted fraud, harassment..."
Emiliano slowly stood up from the leather chair. The initial shock had faded. The nausea had passed. What remained was a cold, absolute clarity.
"No," Emiliano said, adjusting his suit jacket. "Calling the police now would be too easy. She wants a show. She wants drama. I’m going to give her a masterpiece."
He pulled out his phone and dialed his own home landline.
On the screen, he watched Patricia answer the phone in the hallway.
"Hello?" she said, her voice instantly dropping two octaves into a sweet, breathless purr.
"Darling," Emiliano said, matching her tone flawlessly. "It's me. Listen, there's been a massive delay. The private jet had a mechanical issue on the tarmac."
On the screen, Patricia’s face dropped in sheer panic. "Oh no... are you... are you coming home?"
"No, no," Emiliano lied smoothly. "They’re prepping a backup plane. It’s going to take a few more hours, but I'll still be leaving today. I just wanted to hear your voice. Is everything alright at home?"
"Everything is perfect, my love," Patricia lied, her relief palpable on the monitor. "The girls are angels. I miss you already."
"I miss you too," Emiliano said softly. "I'll see you soon."
May you like
He hung up. He looked at the head of security.
"Wipe the logs of my entry. Gather the staff in the main foyer in exactly ten minutes. Lock the front gates. Nobody leaves."
