Chapter 28 - The Summit in Ajaccio
The old stone fortress overlooking the cliffs of Ajaccio, Corsica, smelled of damp moss, sea salt, and centuries of betrayal. The summit room was dark, lit only by a single overhead chandelier casting long, jagged shadows across a massive oak negotiation table.
Four men in immaculate dark suits sat on one side of the table, representing the inner council of the Vipera network. Their leader, a silver-haired Frenchman named Jean-Luc Moreau, watched us enter with cold, predatory eyes.
Dominic walked in with the unyielding swagger of a king taking his throne, his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed entirely on Moreau. I walked a half-step behind him, my canvas medical duffel slung over my shoulder like a tactical pack.
“Dominic Rossi,” Moreau greeted in heavily accented English, gesturing to the opposite chairs. “We didn't expect you to bring a nurse to a syndicate summit.”
“She’s not just a nurse, Moreau,” Dominic said smoothly, pulling out a chair for me before taking his own seat. “She’s the reason your Palermo operation is currently burning to the ground. Consider her my insurance policy against your bad manners.”
Moreau’s smile tightened into a thin, dangerous line. “You destroyed three million dollars in contraband, Rossi. You think you can walk out of Corsica without paying that debt?”
“I didn't come here to negotiate a debt,” Dominic leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “I came here to deliver a message. The Mediterranean belongs to the Rossi family. Marseille is next on the list if your men ever cross my borders again.”
In a flash of motion, one of Moreau’s bodyguards behind the table reached inside his jacket, drawing a suppressed pistol.
Before Moreau’s man could even level the barrel, Dominic drew his Sig Sauer with blinding speed and fired once. The bullet caught the bodyguard squarely in the shoulder, spinning him violently into the stone wall behind him where he collapsed in a heap.
Chaos erupted instantly. The other three Corsican operatives scrambled for their weapons, but Salvatore and two Rossi guards burst through the side doors, their submachine guns locked and loaded, cutting off any retaliation before it could begin.
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Moreau sat frozen in his chair, staring down the barrel of Dominic’s pistol, sweat beading across his forehead.
“You’re out of your depth, Moreau,” Dominic whispered coldly.
