Chapter 4 - The Venezuelan Setup
The private Gulfstream G650 cut through the turbulent clouds above the Caribbean Sea. Inside the luxurious cabin, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension.
Isabella sat across from Aleandro, sipping a glass of champagne. She had spent the entire flight staring out the window, occasionally checking her luxury watch—a timepiece that Aleandro’s security tech had confirmed contained a localized GPS transponder. She thought she was leading a strike team directly to the Moretti family's secret vault.
"You've been quiet, Aleandro," Isabella noted, setting her glass down. "Are you worried about leaving New York while the situation with the Feds is still unstable?"
"New York can take care of itself," Aleandro said, leaning back in his leather seat. "In our world, Isabella, you have to know when to hold your ground and when to disappear. My father taught me that the true test of power isn't how much territory you control. It's how quickly you can vanish when the room catches fire."
Isabella smiled, a hint of arrogance bleeding into her eyes. "Well, you're safe with me."
Safe. The irony was thick enough to choke on.
The jet began its descent, banking sharply toward a small, emerald-green island rising out of the turquoise waters below. A single, sprawling white villa sat on the cliffs, surrounded by dense jungle. It looked exactly like the paradise Aleandro had described.
What Isabella didn't know was that this island didn't belong to the Moretti family. It belonged to Javier Ortega—the head of the Venezuelan Union Cartel, a man who hated the American government with a burning passion and who happened to owe the Moretti family a debt of blood.
The jet touched down on the private tarmac. As the stairs lowered, the humid tropical air rushed into the cabin. Aleandro guided Isabella down the steps, his hand firmly placed on the small of her back.
A black armored SUV was waiting for them. The driver was a massive, scarred man named Carlos, one of Ortega’s most ruthless enforcers. He gave Aleandro a brief, respectful nod before opening the door.
As they drove toward the villa, Isabella’s eyes scanned the tree line. She was looking for signs of her extraction team. According to the encrypted data Elena had intercepted back in New York, a CIA tactical unit was supposed to infiltrate the island via submarine, striking the villa the moment Aleandro opened the vault.
They arrived at the villa. The interior was opulent, filled with Spanish colonial antiques and marble floors. Aleandro led Isabella down a series of winding stone steps into the basement, which opened into a massive, steel-doored vault built directly into the cliffside rock.
"This is it," Aleandro said, stepping up to the heavy electronic keypad. "The heart of the Moretti reserve."
Isabella’s breathing grew shallow. She took a step back, her hand moving instinctively toward her watch, pressing a small button on the side twice. The beacon was active. The strike team was coming.
"Go ahead, darling," she said, her voice shaking slightly with excitement. "Open it."
Aleandro typed in a twelve-digit code. The heavy steel bolts slid back with a loud, echoing clack. The massive door swung open, revealing... completely empty concrete walls. There was no gold. No bearer bonds. Nothing but a single metallic chair in the center of the room and a high-definition video monitor mounted on the wall.
Isabella froze. The color drained from her face. "Aleandro? Where... where is the money?"
"There is no money, Isabella," Aleandro said, his voice dropping all warmth. He stepped back out of the vault, his hand resting on the heavy steel door frame.
Before she could react, Marco and three heavily armed Venezuelan soldiers stepped out from the shadows of the basement corridor, their rifles pointed directly at her chest.
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Isabella instinctively reached into her bag, but Marco was faster. He snatched the purse away, ripping the luxury watch off her wrist and throwing it to the floor, crushing it under his boot.
"The game of hide-and-seek is officially over," Aleandro said, looking at her with eyes of pure flint. "Did you really think a six-year-old child wouldn't notice a red light behind a painting?"
