Chapter 9 - The Geneva Protocol
The private jet touched down in Geneva under the cover of a freezing, snow-laden midnight.
We didn't land at the commercial airport; we touched down at a private alpine airstrip owned by Moretti Holdings, surrounded by snow-capped peaks and pine forests. Waiting for us at the edge of the tarmac were three armored Mercedes SUVs and a tactical team of twenty elite enforcers.
I stepped out into the biting Swiss cold, wearing a dark tactical turtleneck and a heavy wool overcoat, my face set like stone. My mother, Elena, had insisted on coming along.
“Marcus’s chalet is three miles up the mountain,” Elena said, pointing toward a winding, snow-covered road. “It’s a fortress, Vincent. Biometric scanners, private security forces, and an underground panic bunker.”
“Good,” I said, racking the slide of my HK416 assault rifle. “It’ll save us the trouble of burying him elsewhere.”
We rolled out in a silent convoy, headlights off, navigating the treacherous mountain switchbacks through sheer instinct and night-vision optics.
When we reached the perimeter of Marcus’s sprawling alpine estate, we didn't bother knocking.
Mateo blew the iron security gates with a carefully placed shaped charge, the explosion echoing thunderously across the silent valley.
“Move, move, move!” Mateo shouted, leading our men into the compound.
The security guards mounted a fierce resistance, but they were no match for a coordinated Moretti assault squad. We cleared the manicured gardens and shattered the reinforced glass front doors in under three minutes, sweeping through the opulent, art-filled halls of the chalet.
I walked straight toward the master study at the end of the grand hallway. The heavy oak door was unlocked.
I kicked it open and stepped inside.
Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, pouring a glass of 30-year-old scotch as if he were waiting for regular guests, was my uncle Marcus. He looked up, his silver hair neatly combed, a placid, terrifyingly calm smile on his face.
“Ah, nephew,” Marcus said smoothly, taking a sip of his drink. “I wondered how long it would take you to figure it out.”
I raised my rifle, keeping the laser sight dead-centered on his forehead. “You destroyed my family, Marcus. You tried to steal my daughter.”
“I didn't try to steal her, Vincent. I tried to save the dynasty,” Marcus replied, leaning back in his leather chair without a shred of fear. “You went soft. You fell in love, you got married, you started playing house in Manhattan like a common billionaire. The Moretti family isn't built for domestic bliss. We are built for power.”
“You used Sloan,” I snarled, my finger tightening on the trigger. “You used my wife and my unborn child as pawns.”
“And it was a brilliant strategy, until your mother decided to resurrect herself from the dead,” Marcus chuckled darkly. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger. Kill the last man who actually understood what it takes to run this empire. See if that brings your marriage back together. See if that makes Sloan look at you without fear.”
His words struck a raw, agonizing nerve. He was right. Even if I killed him, the darkness in my world would still be there. I was a mafia boss. I was a killer.
And Sloan deserved a better life.
I lowered the barrel of the rifle just an inch—and then Marcus’s eyes widened in horror.
Behind me, the study door clicked open.
Elena stepped into the room, holding a heavy revolver with both hands, her hands completely steady.
“You always talked too much, Marcus,” my mother whispered.
Bang.
The shot echoed deafeningly through the study.
Marcus Moretti slumped forward across his mahogany desk, his scotch glass tipping over, dark red liquid spilling across the polished wood to mingle with his blood.
Elena lowered the smoking gun, her face expressionless.
“The accounts are frozen,” she said quietly, looking at me. “The Syndicate of Nine is leaderless. The empire is yours, Vincent. Entirely yours.”
I looked down at my uncle’s body, feeling nothing—no triumph, no relief. Just the cold, heavy weight of a legacy built on blood.
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“It’s over,” I said, turning toward the door.
“Is it?” Elena asked softly. “Or is that just what you tell yourself so you can go back to a woman who will never truly be safe with you?”
