Chapter 4 - The Strike at Midnight
The grand study on the first floor was lit only by the golden glow of the fireplace and two desk lamps.
Two men stood waiting near the marble hearth, holding crystal glasses of scotch.
Lucian Moretti, forty-five, was tall, lean, with silver-streaked hair and a sharp, fox-like face. He was Alessandro’s cousin, a brilliant strategist who managed the family’s legal front businesses. On his right hand sat his ruby ring.
Matteo Vance, fifty-two, was broader, heavily built, with a thick beard and a permanently stern brow. He was Elena’s uncle, a hardened veteran of the docks who oversaw the syndicate’s shipping routes. On his right hand sat his identical ruby ring.
When the heavy oak doors opened and Alessandro walked in, both men turned instantly.
“Alessandro,” Lucian spoke first, stepping forward with a frown. “What is going on? The outer perimeter guards are locked down. Marco called in thirty mercenaries from the Bronx. Is Falcone making a move?”
Alessandro walked slowly behind his massive mahogany desk. He did not sit. He stood tall, his hands resting flat against the polished wood, his gray eyes sweeping over the two men like a pair of loaded guns.
“Falcone isn't making a move,” Alessandro said, his voice dangerously soft. “I am.”
Matteo furrowed his brow, setting his scotch down on the mantle. “What are you talking about? You’ve been gone all night. The Capos are waiting for the morning briefing regarding the docks.”
“I was in Brooklyn,” Alessandro said. He looked directly at Matteo, then shifted his gaze to Lucian. “I found something in the rain.”
Lucian’s eyes flickered slightly. “What did you find?”
“Elena’s daughter,” Alessandro declared.
The word hung in the quiet study like a unexploded bomb.
Matteo gasped, taking an instinctive step forward, his broad face breaking into utter shock. “What?! Elena’s... Elena had a child? But... she died in Staten Island!”
“She didn't die in Staten Island, Matteo,” Alessandro said, watching their reactions with terrifying scrutiny. “She escaped. She raised my daughter in a cold room in Red Hook until she died of exhaustion. And tonight, my three-year-old daughter walked up to my car in the rain.”
Matteo’s hands began to shake. Tears sprang to the old sailor’s eyes. “My God... my niece’s baby... She’s alive? Where is she? Alessandro, where is she?!”
The grief and shock on Matteo’s face was raw, unscripted, and entirely genuine. The old man genuinely loved his niece; his pain was real.
Alessandro shifted his icy gaze to Lucian.
Lucian had not gasped. He had not stepped forward.
His face had turned slightly pale, his hand imperceptibly tightening around his crystal glass until the knuckles turned white. His eyes didn't show shock—they showed a sharp, desperate calculation.
“That’s... incredible news, Alessandro,” Lucian said, his voice flat, forced, and lacking warmth. “A miraculous survival. But... are you certain she is yours? A child from the slums... it could be a setup by Falcone.”
Alessandro’s eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits.
“She carries Elena’s silver songbird, Lucian,” Alessandro said softly. “And she carries my eyes. But more importantly... her grandmother told me something before she was taken to the hospital tonight.”
Lucian’s jaw twitched. “Oh? What did the old woman say?”
“She said Elena fled Staten Island because someone inside this house gave Falcone the security codes,” Alessandro stepped around the desk, his stride slow, deliberate, lethal. “She said the traitor wore a red ruby ring.”
Matteo looked down at his own hand in horror, then looked at Lucian. “Lucian...?”
Lucian let out a short, cold laugh, taking a step back toward the curtained windows behind the fireplace. “This is absurd! You’re taking the delirium of a dying old woman over the loyalty of your own family?! I built this syndicate with you, Alessandro!”
“You didn't build it, Lucian,” Alessandro said, stopping three feet away from his cousin. “You bled it. You wanted the crown. You knew if Elena gave me a son or a daughter, your line of succession would be buried forever. So you sold her location to Falcone four years ago.”
“You have no proof!” Lucian snarled, his hand slipping toward his belt.
“I don't need proof,” Alessandro whispered. “I am the Don.”
Before Lucian could pull his weapon, Alessandro’s hand shot out like a striking viper. He grabbed Lucian by the throat, slamming his head back against the heavy stone mantle of the fireplace with a sickening CRACK.
Lucian slumped to his knees, blood pouring from a cut on his forehead, his pistol clattering to the hardwood floor.
At that exact moment, the glass of the high study windows shattered into a million pieces!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Automatic gunfire rained into the room from the garden outside!
“Ambush!” Matteo yelled, throwing himself behind the heavy leather sofa.
A tactical squad of ten men dressed in black, unmarked gear burst through the shattered windows, suppressed submachine guns raised, sweeping the room with bullets!
Lucian crawled desperately toward the attackers, laughing maniacally through his bloodied teeth. “Over here! Kill Moretti! Kill him and get the kid upstairs! Falcone pays double for the child!”
Lucian hadn't just been caught—he had already called a Falcone strike team to the estate the moment he heard the security grid lock down!
Alessandro didn't panic. He rolled across the floor, drawing his custom twin chrome Sig Sauer pistols from his shoulder holsters in a fluid, deadly motion.
THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!
Alessandro fired six shots in three seconds with terrifying precision. Three attackers dropped instantly, blood blooming across their tactical vests as bullets pierced their necks and foreheads.
Marco burst through the study doors with four Moretti enforcers, automatic rifles blazing. The study erupted into a roaring warzone of deafening gunfire, shattering glass, and splintering mahogany.
“Protect the second floor!” Alessandro roared above the din, his eyes wild with a father’s rage. “If a single bullet touches the second floor, I’ll skin every man in this room alive!”
Alessandro pushed forward through the smoke and lead, a phantom of death. He ducked under a spray of bullets, grabbed an attacker by his collar, snapped his neck, and used his body as a shield while emptying his magazine into two more mercenaries.
Within ninety seconds, the seven attackers lay dead across the ruined Persian rugs.
Lucian was crawling desperately toward the shattered window, his leg bleeding from a stray bullet.
Alessandro walked up behind his cousin. He placed his heavy leather boot squarely on Lucian’s spine, pinning him to the floor.
Lucian coughed up blood, looking back up at Alessandro with terrified, desperate eyes. “Alessandro... please! We’re blood! Falcone forced my hand! He had leverage on my offshore accounts!”
Alessandro looked down at his cousin. His pale gray eyes carried no hatred, no anger—only the absolute, terrifying void of an executioner.
“You made my wife run through the snow,” Alessandro said, his voice flat and quiet. “You made my daughter wear thin shoes in the rain.”
May you like
Alessandro raised his gun.
BANG.
