Chapter 4 - THE BOARDROOM AMBUSHThe corporate headquarters of Moretti Global was a forty-story monolith of dark glass and steel looming over the city skyline. At the very top sat the imperial boardroom—a vast, cathedral-like space with a twelve-seater mahogany table, panoramic views of the bay, and a custom-built bulletproof ceiling.
Right now, eleven men were sitting around that table.
They were the capos, the elders, the financial masterminds of the Moretti syndicate. Men who controlled shipping lanes, political bribes, and underground banking networks across three continents.
And at the head of the table, leaning casually against the back of the chairman’s leather chair, stood Damian Ricci.
Damian was wearing a pristine charcoal suit, a gold fountain pen tucked neatly into his breast pocket. He was looking at his gold-plated watch, a faint, confident smile playing on his lips.
“Gentlemen,” Damian said, his voice echoing smoothly across the silent room. “It appears our host is running late. But traffic on the coast can be... unpredictable.”
A ripple of low laughter ran through the table. Several capos exchanged knowing smirks. Everyone in this room knew what "unpredictable traffic" meant.
“The tunnel cameras are disabled, correct?” asked old man Morello, a veteran capo whose hands were scarred from decades of gang wars.
“Permanently,” Damian replied smoothly, pulling a crisp stack of papers from his briefcase and sliding them across the mahogany table. “And once the confirmation comes through from the bay, we will proceed with the emergency succession protocol. With Isabella as regent and myself overseeing operations, the transition will be seamless.”
“And what about Alessandro’s body?” another capo asked.
“The bay is deep,” Damian said, pouring himself a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. “Sometimes the sea doesn't give back what it takes.”
He raised his glass, preparing to toast.
CLANG.
The heavy, soundproof oak doors of the boardroom didn't just open—they slammed violently against the interior walls, the massive brass hinges splintering under a force that made every man at the table leap to his feet.
Damian’s scotch glass slipped from his fingers, shattering into a million sparkling diamonds on the Turkish rug as dark red liquid splashed across his polished Italian shoes.
Silence slammed over the room like a physical blow.
Through the ruined doorway stepped Alessandro Moretti.
He wasn’t wearing his scorched suit jacket; he had traded it for a heavy trench coat, his face cast in cold, unforgiving shadow. Behind him walked two tactical guards carrying heavy assault rifles.
And right behind them, holding her cracked, tape-fixed phone like a shield, walked me.
Damian stared, his color instantly draining from his face until he looked like a corpse dug up from a shallow grave. His mouth opened, but no words came out. His hands gripped the edge of the mahogany table so hard his knuckles turned white.
“A... Alessandro?” Damian stammered, his polished facade completely shattering in real-time. “You... how... where is the car?”
Alessandro walked slowly down the center aisle of the boardroom, his heavy boots echoing like funeral drums against the marble floor. He didn't look at the capos. He didn't look at the panoramic windows. His eyes were locked entirely on Damian.
“The car went up in smoke, Damian,” Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a chilling, hypnotic register. “Turns out, your new driver doesn't know how to handle a turbo engine. It blew right up in the courtyard.”
Damian swallowed hard, his throat bobbing frantically. He tried to regain his composure, forcing a shaky, desperate smile as he looked around at the capos.
“Gentlemen! Listen to him! He’s... he’s clearly delirious! He survived an accident and he’s imagining things—” Damian shouted, gesturing wildly to the table. “Guards! Security! Get him out of here, he’s having a psychotic break!”
Not a single guard moved.
In fact, old man Morello and the rest of the capos slowly leaned back in their chairs, their eyes shifting from Damian to Alessandro with cold, assessing caution. In the underworld, you don't survive by being loyal to a loser; you survive by backing the man holding the smoking gun.
“Security isn't coming, Damian,” Alessandro said, stopping five feet away from the head of the table. “Marcus is currently feeding the fishes at the bottom of the bay. And as for your little boardroom meeting...”
Alessandro reached into his coat, pulled out my cracked phone, and dropped it right onto the center of the mahogany table.
“Let’s play track two.”
He tapped the screen.
The audio filled the massive, silent boardroom, crystal clear through the high-end ceiling speakers that Damian himself had installed for presentations.
“The council meeting is the cleanest moment...” “Enzo will be removed...” “My man will drive...”
Damian’s voice, calm, calculated, and treasonous, echoed off the walls. Every single capo at the table turned their heads to stare at Damian with absolute, unadulterated disgust. In the syndicate, ambition was tolerated; treason against the family was a death sentence.
Then, Isabella’s voice rang out through the speakers. “Will he suffer?” “Long enough to sign over the accounts.”
And finally, the part Damian hadn't heard yet—the final eleven minutes of the recording, detailing the murder of Alessandro’s father twenty-two years ago, voiced by a shadowy figure Damian had thought was safely buried in the past.
When the audio finally clicked off, the boardroom was dead silent. You could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning unit high above.
Damian stood frozen at the head of the table, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Sweat was pouring down his temples, soaking into his expensive collar.
“You... you framed this,” Damian whispered, his voice cracking horribly. “It’s... it’s AI-generated! It’s fake! Look at him, gentlemen, he’s trying to steal your shares by framing his own adviser!”
Alessandro didn't yell. He didn't draw his gun.
Instead, he slowly pulled a heavy, silver-engraved pocket watch from his vest pocket—the exact watch that had belonged to his murdered father—and clicked it open.
“You always were a terrible liar, Damian,” Alessandro whispered, lifting his gaze to meet Damian’s terrified eyes.
Then, Alessandro raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
The side doors of the boardroom slid open. Two tactical guards marched in, dragging a bound and gagged Isabella between them, throwing her violently onto the floor right at Damian’s feet.
Isabella spat out her gag, her hair wild, her eyes wide with primal terror.
“Damian!” she screamed, looking up at her co-conspirator. “Tell him! Tell him we can still—!”
“Shut her up,” Alessandro commanded.
A heavy boot pressed down on Isabella’s shoulder, pinning her to the floor.
Alessandro walked around the table, stopping right beside Damian. He didn't look at the traitor. He reached down, picked up Damian’s gold fountain pen from the breast pocket, and tossed it onto the audio-playing phone.
“You wanted the empire, Damian,” Alessandro said softly, his voice sliding like a razor blade against skin. “You wanted the accounts. You wanted the crown.”
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Alessandro pulled his Sig Sauer from his holster, pressing the cold steel barrel firmly against the center of Damian’s forehead.
“Sign your resignation,” Alessandro whispered. “And then, let’s see if the sea wants you back, too.”
