Chapter 11 - The Darkness FallsThe red laser dots converged on my chest like a cluster of glowing embers in a dying hearth. The heavy mahogany study, which had stood as the unassailable fortress of the Moretti dynasty for decades, instantly transformed into a execution chamber.
Marco stood beneath the dim emergency lights, the cold steel of his automatic pistol steady and unwavering.
"Ten years, Alessandro," Marco murmured, his voice completely devoid of emotion, stripping away the faux camaraderie we had forged through countless gunfights and turf wars. "Ten years of watching your back, patching your wounds, and executing your orders. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to bow to a king when you know you built the throne?"
"You're a foot soldier, Marco," I said, my voice ice-cold, keeping my hands level and away from my concealed Beretta. Moving too fast meant death; moving too smart meant survival. "You think a dog can suddenly become the master just because he bites the hand?"
"I'm not a dog, Alessandro. I'm the architect," Marco replied, stepping closer as the foreign tactical guards closed the ring tighter around me. "The European Cartel didn't just stumble into New York. We invited them. Isabella was never meant to be your true wife—she was the tripwire. We knew your pride and suspicion would lead you straight to Julian and your mother. You purged your own blood, locked away your council, and left the vault wide open."
I looked past Marco at the masked operatives holding the perimeter. They didn't wear the emblems of the old New York families. They wore the silver serpent insignia of the Marseille Syndicate—a global shadow empire that made the Morettis look like street-corner bookies.
"Vance was playing a long game," I said, piece by piece connecting the bloody puzzle in my mind. "Every dollar you 'intercepted' from Julian wasn't going into my treasury. It was funding the Cartel's hostile takeover of our shipping lanes."
May you like
"Smart boy," Marco smiled grimly. "And now, the empire transfers ownership cleanly. A tragic accident in your private study. A gas leak, perhaps? Or a break-in by bitter remnants of Julian's loyalists. The coroner's report is already written."
Marco’s finger tightened on the trigger, the hammer of his pistol cocking with a sharp, lethal metallic click.
