Chapter 5 - The Standoff in the Great HallThe air in the grand Tuscan hall grew so thick with tension you could have cut it with a stiletto. Don Salvatore Moretti walked with the arrogant swagger of a man who believed he held all the winning cards, his silver-knobbed cane tapping rhythmically against the blood-stained marble floor.
"Salvatore," Alessandro greeted, his voice dropping an octave into a low, predatory purr. "You look old. And stupid. A fatal combination when visiting uninvited."
Moretti chuckled, though his cold blue eyes remained dead. "And you look soft, caro mio. Falling for a stray American girl in Central Park? Bringing her across the Atlantic like a prized trophy? Rumor has it she's the only thing keeping the great Russo empire from collapsing under its own weight."
Alessandro didn't flinch, but I could feel the coiled, lethal tension radiating from his body. "You stepped onto my property, slaughtered my guards, and frightened my son. For that, you won't leave this valley alive."
"Oh, I think I will," Moretti sneered, snapping his fingers.
Two of his thugs stepped forward, dragging a terrified, middle-aged woman between them. It was Maria, the head housekeeper, her hands bound behind her back and a dark bruise blooming across her cheek.
"Drop your weapon, Alessandro," Moretti demanded, his voice turning icy. "Or the old woman dies right here on your precious marble. And then, we turn our attention to your little American pet. I hear she makes a wonderful cup of coffee. It’s a shame she won’t live to taste it again."
My breath hitched. I looked at Maria, then at Luca, who was trembling behind Alessandro's leg, clutching his father's coat.
Alessandro’s eyes flicked to the housekeeper, then back to Moretti. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of calculation crossed his sharp features. His hand slowly slid away from his holster.
"Don't do it," I whispered, grabbing the edge of his sleeve. "It's a trap, Alessandro. He'll kill us all anyway."
Alessandro glanced back at me over his shoulder. In that split second, the cold mafia boss vanished, and I saw a man carrying the crushing weight of every soul under his roof. He gave me a tiny, imperceptible shake of his head.
"I don't gamble with the lives of my people," he whispered back.
He raised his hands slowly, palms open, stepping away from his weapon. "You win, Salvatore. Let Maria go. Take whatever territory in Manhattan you want. Just leave the boy and her out of this."
Moretti’s smile widened into a predatory grin. "Smart boy. I always knew you had a weak spot, Alessandro—"
Bang.
The deafening crack of a gunshot echoed off the vaulted stone ceilings.
Moretti’s smirk froze. A blossoming red stain bloomed across the chest of his tailored suit, right over his heart. He looked down in utter shock, his knees buckling beneath him as he crashed hard onto the marble floor.
Silence fell so fast it made my ears ring.
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Everyone whipped their heads toward the grand staircase. Standing on the landing, holding a smoking hunting rifle with absolute, chilling composure, was Marco.
"Nobody," Marco shouted in Italian, his voice echoing through the hall, "threatens the famiglia on Russo soil."
