Chapter 3 - THE ANATOMY OF A SETUPThe silence that followed was heavy enough to crack the reinforced glass windows.
Vincent didn’t flinch—not immediately. That was the training. A Moretti never breaks on the first strike. Instead, a slow, razor-thin smile curved the corner of his mouth, stripping away the eager-nephew facade like a cheap theatrical mask.
“The child has an overactive imagination, Uncle,” Vincent said, his voice dropping its deferential warmth, replacing it with something sharp and predatory. “And you’re recovering from an anemic shock. Your judgment is compromised. We have a confession in motion. The three hundred thousand is in Sophia’s offshore account. The poisoned vial was in her locker. The board is already drafting the press release for tomorrow morning: Disloyal employee eliminated. Clean. Corporate. Final.”
Aleandro didn’t shout. He didn’t reach for the hidden Beretta under his arm. He simply watched the boy he had raised like a son—the boy he had appointed as chief of operations—expose his own throat.
“You planted the bank transfer,” Aleandro stated, not as a question, but as an entry in a ledger.
“I streamlined our security,” Vincent corrected smoothly, taking a step back toward the door where two armed guards stood outside in the corridor. “You’ve grown soft, Aleandro. You kept the old guard, you kept the charity cases, and you let a bleeding-heart maid walk around like she belonged in the family portraits. The syndicate needs a firm hand. My hand.”
“And Sophia’s husband?” Aleandro’s voice was dangerously quiet. “On the construction site three years ago? Was that your streamlining too?”
Vincent’s smile widened, cold and absolute. “He asked too many questions about the concrete ratios. Accidents happen on high-rises. Just like heart attacks happen in private studies. Only… this time, you had a little medical miracle running around with an EpiPen.” Vincent glanced down at Emma, who shrank back into the cushions. “Shame about the girl. Orphans tend to disappear into the foster system very easily, don’t they?”
In a fraction of a second, the room detonated.
Aleandro didn’t draw a gun; he lunged. But Vincent was younger, faster, and already stepping backward through the doorway, his hand whipping out a suppressed pistol.
“Lock down the estate!” Vincent screamed to the hallway guards. “The boss has lost his mind! Secure the perimeter!”
Heavy steel shutters slammed down across the study windows. The internal security lights flashed a furious, bleeding crimson.
May you like
Aleandro slammed against the closing heavy oak doors, but they locked with a deafening metallic clack.
He was trapped inside his own fortress. And down in the underground holding cells, Sophia Carter was waiting for a firing squad that had already been paid for.
