Chapter 5 - The Counter-Strike PlanI walked back into the bedroom, gently placing sleeping Luca into his crib. Isabella stirred slightly, opening her heavy eyelids and looking up at me with tired, questioning eyes.
“Vincent… you look pale. What’s wrong?” she whispered, her voice still raspy from the poison.
I sat down beside her, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her forehead. A gentle, reassuring smile touched my lips—the same smile I used whenever I was about to destroy an opponent who thought they had already won.
“Nothing is wrong, sweetheart,” I lied smoothly, keeping my voice calm and steady. “Just some routine business matters. Rest easy. I have everything under control.”
“Evelyn… and Arthur?” she asked, a shiver running through her frame.
“They are locked away where they can never touch you or our son again,” I assured her firmly. “Tomorrow morning, I have to step out of the house for a few hours to handle some loose ends. Marcus and an elite security detail will remain inside the perimeter. No one gets in. Do you understand?”
Isabella nodded trustingly, closing her eyes again as exhaustion pulled her back into a deep, healing sleep.
I stood up, walking silently out of the room and heading straight down to my underground command center—a high-security, Faraday-caged bunker beneath the mansion that not even the government knew existed.
The monitors flickered to life, casting a harsh blue glow across my face.
“Marcus,” I spoke into the encrypted intercom.
“I’m here, Mr. Moretti,” my head of security replied instantly through the speakers.
“Status on Evelyn and Arthur?”
“Evelyn is locked in the East Wing holding cell. She’s screaming bloody murder, threatening us with federal intervention. Arthur is in the lower vault, crying like a baby. He confessed that the Garcia syndicate is backing them.”
“Good,” I said, typing rapidly on the custom console, routing encrypted data packets across international servers. “Did you trace the call that just came to my personal burner phone?”
“Got a partial lock before they scrambled it. Signal originated from a derelict shipyard warehouse in the industrial district—Pier 42. Owned by a shell company tied to Victor Garcia’s son, Mateo Garcia.”
A cruel smile touched the corner of my mouth. Mateo Garcia. So the snake crawled out of the hole to finish his father’s work.
“Listen to me very carefully, Marcus,” I instructed, my voice sharp and absolute. “Do not wait for dawn. Do not wait for their federal agents to show up at our gates. We are going to rewrite their timeline.”
“What are your orders?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting instantly into razor-sharp professional focus.
“Mobilize the tactical response unit. Prep the armored transport. We are paying Mateo Garcia a personal midnight visit at Pier 42.”
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I pulled my custom-tailored jacket over my shoulders, sliding a heavy, suppressed tactical pistol into my holster.
“Let’s go teach these amateurs what happens when you mistake a lion for a lamb.”
