Chapter 6 - Blood and TreacheryThe name echoed in my mind like a gunshot.
Marco.
My younger brother’s only son—the boy I had raised like my own flesh and blood after my brother died in the turf wars fifteen years ago. The boy I had personally appointed as the head of our European acquisitions department just last year.
“Are you certain, Marcus?” I asked, my voice dangerously low.
“Positive,” Marcus replied. “The transaction signatures match Marco’s private cryptographic key. Victor was just the executioner on the ground. Your nephew was the architect orchestrating the entire hostile takeover from Geneva.”
The rain seemed to grow colder, stinging my face as I stared out across the gray, churning harbor.
Betrayal from a trusted advisor of twenty-five years was a deep wound. But betrayal from blood—from the very boy I had sworn to protect and mentor—was a dagger twisted straight through my heart.
“Thank you, Marcus. Keep monitoring those accounts. Let me know if anyone else tries to touch them.”
I clicked the phone shut and turned toward the armored Suburban, where Victor was bleeding and chained in the back seat.
Gabriel looked at me, reading the dark expression carved into my features. “Bad news, boss?”
“The rot goes deeper than we thought,” I said, opening the driver’s side door. “It’s not just the Calderons. It’s family.”
“Marco?” Gabriel guessed instantly, his eyes widening.
“Get the secure communications gear online,” I ordered, climbing behind the wheel. “We’re calling an emergency syndicate council meeting at the main villa for midnight tonight. Every capo, every regional director, and every family branch manager must be present. No exceptions.”
“And Marco?”
“Tell his security detail in Geneva that his presence is requested immediately for an urgent family matter,” I said, putting the SUV into reverse with a sharp jerk of the transmission. “Let’s see if my dear nephew has the courage to look me in the eye when he signs his own death warrant.”
The drive back to the Moretti estate was silent, save for the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers cutting through the relentless morning downpour.
By the time we pulled through the massive wrought-iron gates of the villa, the sun was beginning to break through the thick gray clouds on the eastern horizon, casting a pale, cold amber light across the immaculate gardens.
Elena and Sophia were waiting in the grand foyer under the watchful eye of two armed guards.
When Sophia saw me step through the double doors, she clutched her worn teddy bear a little tighter and stepped forward from behind her mother’s skirt.
“Are the bad men gone, sir?” she asked softly.
I knelt down on one knee, looking directly into the bright, innocent eyes of the five-year-old girl who had saved my life with a box of crayons and a sharp set of ears.
“Yes, Sophia,” I said, offering a rare, gentle smile. “The bad men are gone. And because of you, this house is safe again.”
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Elena wiped a tear from her cheek, bowing her head deeply. “Thank you, Mr. Moretti. We don't know how to ever repay you.”
“You already have,” I stood up, looking at Gabriel. “Take Elena and Sophia to the safehouse in Tuscany. Give them whatever they need, and ensure they are protected for the rest of their lives. No one touches them. Ever.”
