Chapter 9 - The Iron Ghost's WrathThe corridors of the Villa Moretti echoed with the sharp snaps of gunfire and the muffled grunts of close-quarter combat.
Three cartel operatives crept down the dimly lit hallway of the East Wing, their black tactical gear blending into the shadows, their weapons raised. They moved with professional training, sweeping corners, expecting to find an easy target.
They didn't find an easy target. They found a nightmare.
From the ceiling ventilation grate above, a heavy silhouette dropped silently behind the rearmost operative. Before the man could turn, a strong arm locked around his throat in a brutal, crushing chokehold, snapping his neck with a wet crunch before his body even hit the polished marble floor.
The other two whirled around, firing blindly into the darkness.
"Over here, pendejos," a cold voice echoed from the shadows of an archway.
Lorenzo Moretti stepped into the dim light. He fired twice with terrifying precision. Two crimson blooms blossomed on the chests of the remaining operatives, dropping them instantly.
Moretti stepped over the bodies, his expression as calm as if he were walking through a botanical garden, and continued toward the main foyer.
Downstairs, the battle was already over. Caporegime Marco and his men had cornered the rest of the infiltration team near the grand staircase. Not a single cartel member was leaving this estate alive.
Moretti walked down the grand marble stairs, casually ejecting an empty magazine from his pistol and clicking a fresh one into place. At the bottom of the stairs, trembling and bleeding from a graze to his shoulder, knelt Hector Gomez, pinned to the floor by two of Moretti's enforcers.
Moretti walked up slowly, stopping a few inches away. He looked down at Gomez with absolute contempt.
"Hector," Moretti said smoothly, resting the barrel of his pistol against Gomez's forehead. "You must have terrible navigation skills. You seem to have wandered into a cemetery."
Gomez spat blood onto Moretti’s polished leather shoes, laughing hysterically. "You think you're untouchable, Moretti? You're protecting a dead girl! The cartel will send a hundred more! You can't keep her safe forever!"
Moretti’s expression didn't change by a single micro-expression.
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"Watch me," he whispered.
The shot echoed through the empty hall, silencing the night once and for all.
