Chapter 6 - The Sound of Glass Breaking
The muzzle of Carlo’s silver Walther gleamed under the crystal chandelier of the grand dining hall.
Frankie Gallo didn't flinch. As a man who had survived three syndicate wars, his reflexes were hardwired for violence. Even sitting down, Frankie’s hand dropped instinctively toward his holster, but two of Carlo’s hidden enforcers—mercenaries smuggled in under the guise of floral deliverymen—stepped out from behind the heavy velvet drapes, their submachine guns instantly tracking the four captains.
“Don't even think about it, Frankie,” Carlo murmured, his voice as smooth as silk stretched over a razor blade. “The guards at the gates are mine. The security protocols are mine. By sunset, the police will find this estate reduced to a smoking crater, and the official report will state that a disgruntled Veles crew blew up the Moretti leadership in a turf war.”
Frankie leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Carlo with cold, unadulterated contempt. “You really think you can run this family, Carlo? You’re a clerk. You’ve spent twenty years sharpening pencils while we spilled blood on the docks. The capos will never answer to a bean counter.”
“They won't have to answer to me,” Carlo replied calmly, clicking off the safety of his pistol. “They’ll be dead.”
Before Carlo’s finger could squeeze the trigger, a sharp, piercing sound cut through the tense silence of the room.
Clink.
It wasn't a gunshot. It wasn't an explosion.
It was the distinct, unmistakable sound of a silver pocket watch lid springing open.
Carlo froze. His head snapped toward the far end of the grand dining hall, where two massive, soundproofed oak doors separated the room from the private family parlor.
The doors didn't just open. They exploded inward, splintering into a thousand jagged wooden shards that rained across the polished parquet floor.
Through the dust and debris stepped Alessandro Moretti.
He wasn't wearing his coat. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, corded forearms crisscrossed with old combat scars. In his right hand, he held a customized Remington tactical shotgun, the barrel casually pointed at the marble floor. Behind him strode Marco, flanked by six loyal guards carrying assault rifles with their safeties off.
Alessandro didn't look angry. He looked like an executioner who had finally received permission from the gods to drop the axe.
Carlo’s face drained of every drop of blood. His hand holding the Walther began to tremble, just a fraction of an inch.
“C-Carlo,” Alessandro said, his deep, gravelly voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling with terrifying resonance. “You always did have an eye for interior design. Though I must admit... blowing up my dining room table seems a bit extreme for a man who hates paperwork.”
Carlo swallowed hard, desperately trying to regain his composure. He whipped the pistol around, aiming straight at Alessandro’s chest.
“Stay back, Alessandro!” Carlo screamed, his polished facade finally shattering into raw, naked panic. “One push of this remote in my pocket, and this entire wing goes up in flames! We all die right here!”
Alessandro took a slow, deliberate step forward, the heavy boots of his tactical gear clicking rhythmically against the broken wood.
“Push it, then,” Alessandro challenged softly, stopping just ten feet away from the trembling administrator.
May you like
Carlo stared at him in horror. “What?”
“I said... push the button, Carlo,” Alessandro repeated, his gray eyes locking onto the traitor’s soul. “You spent fifteen years calculating every risk, forging every signature, and plotting every betrayal. Let’s see if your math accounts for the grave you just dug for yourself.”
