Chapter 8 - Blood and IronThe night air outside the vault was freezing, biting sharply against our skin as we stepped out into the reinforced security corridor of Belladonna House. Sirens wailed softly in the distance, their red emergency lights painting the stone walls in rhythmic crimson pulses.
Marcus jogged up to us, holding a tactical assault rifle, his face etched with grim determination.
“We secured the perimeter, Boss. The sniper managed to escape via a grappling hook over the eastern wall, but forensics recovered a shell casing with a distinct crest—the private insignia of the Milan syndicate.”
“Salvatore’s personal hit squad,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “He knew DeMarco was about to talk, so he tied up loose ends before he even arrived.”
“And what about tomorrow’s summit?” Marcus asked.
“Tomorrow, Salvatore walks right into our trap,” Vincent replied, turning to me. “Isabella, get your coat. We’re moving to the command penthouse. It’s time to prepare for a family reunion.”
By dawn, Belladonna House had transformed from a luxurious social estate into an impenetrable fortress. Armed guards in tactical gear patrolled the corridors, security cameras scanned every inch of the perimeter, and the heavy iron gates remained locked tight.
At precisely noon, a black armored Maybach rolled up the snow-covered driveway, followed by two SUVs carrying elite bodyguards.
The rear door of the Maybach opened, and out stepped Uncle Salvatore Moretti—an imposing, silver-haired patriarch leaning heavily on a gold-handled cane, wearing an immaculate cashmere overcoat and a cold, calculating smile that mirrored Viktor Rostov’s.
“Vincent, my boy!” Salvatore boomed, stepping into the grand entrance hall as the heavy oak doors swung open. “It’s been too long. I hear your engagement party had a bit of... unexpected drama?”
Vincent stood at the top of the grand staircase, his hands resting calmly in his pockets. I stood one step behind him, wearing my dark crimson dress, the silver locket resting visibly against my collarbone.
Salvatore stopped midway up the stairs, his eyes fixing on me. For a split second, the color drained from his aged face, his cane trembling slightly against the marble step.
“Who is this?” Salvatore asked, his voice losing its jovial warmth, replaced by a sudden, razor-sharp edge.
“You know damn well who she is, Uncle,” Vincent said smoothly, taking a slow step down the stairs toward him. “Meet my cousin, Isabella Teresa Moretti. Daughter of Elena Moretti.”
Salvatore stared at me, his eyes wide with shock and suppressed fury. He quickly masked it behind a dry, condescending chuckle.
“Elena? Impossible. The girl died in the fire twenty-eight years ago. You’ve brought some random imposter into our home, Vincent. Have you lost your mind?”
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“I haven't lost my mind, Uncle,” Vincent said, stopping two steps above him. “In fact, my mind has never been clearer. Especially after we found the wire transfer receipts from your Swiss accounts to the arsonists who burned down the East Wing in 1998.”
Salvatore’s smile vanished completely. The air in the grand hall turned absolute zero.
