Chapter 9 - The Detonation Point
"Evan," Grace’s voice crackled through my earpiece, laced with sudden, sharp panic. "He’s wired the perimeter of the east wing. If that detonator goes off, the blast will breach the panic room ventilation shaft."
I didn't answer her. I grabbed the assault rifle from the floor beside the dead operative, checked the magazine, and bolted out the French doors toward the terrace.
Moretti stood by the rosebushes, a cold, mocking smile stretching across his scarred face. He held a small black remote control in his right hand, his thumb hovering directly over the red button.
"Stop right there, Whitaker!" Moretti called out, his voice carrying clearly across the dew-soaked grass. "One step closer, and your little brats become history. Just like their mother."
My heart stopped for a fraction of a second. The world narrowed down to a single point: the red light blinking on the detonator.
"Leave her out of this," I growled, walking slowly toward him across the marble terrace, my assault rifle held low at my side.
"Why? Because you couldn't save her either?" Moretti sneered, taking a step backward toward the shadows of the oak trees. "Cancer is a slow killer, Evan. But a C4 charge is much more efficient. Do you really think Vanessa worked alone? I planted her in your bed. I orchestrated every tear, every flinch, every moment of terror. I wanted you to feel what it's like to watch your family destroyed from the inside out."
"You miscalculated," I said, stopping ten paces away from him.
Moretti laughed, his thumb pressing down slightly harder on the button. "Did I? Look at you. The great mafia boss, reduced to begging for his children's lives in a garden."
"No," a cold voice echoed from the darkness behind Moretti. "You miscalculated the housekeeper."
Moretti’s eyes widened in sudden confusion. He started to turn around, but a heavy iron fireplace poker whistled through the air, catching him squarely across the back of his knees with bone-shattering force.
Moretti screamed, his legs buckling beneath him as he hit the dirt. The black detonator slipped from his fingers, rolling across the stone terrace.
I sprinted forward, diving across the marble, and snatched the remote control just as Moretti reached for a secondary pistol in his coat.
I didn't hesitate. I jammed the barrel of my Sig Sauer beneath his chin, cocked the hammer, and pressed my foot down hard on his chest.
"Game over, Dante," I whispered.
Moretti stared up at me, gasping for air, blood trickling from his nose where Grace had struck him. He managed a bloody, defiant grin.
"You... you think killing me stops it? The Syndicate... they already know you're alive. They're coming for—"
I pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed across the Connecticut hills, silencing Moretti permanently.
I stood up slowly, looking down at the dead man in the dirt. My breathing was heavy, but my hands were completely steady.
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Grace stepped out from the shadows of the terrace, lowering the iron poker with a quiet sigh of relief. She looked down at Moretti, then up at me.
"Well," she said, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. "That definitely beats dusting."
