Chapter 7 - The Wrath of Matteo
When the mild sedative finally began pulling me into a dreamless sleep, Matteo stood up from the bed. He lingered for a moment, gently pulling the heavy duvet up over my shoulders and smoothing my hair one last time.
Then, the warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by an abyss of lethal, calculated vengeance.
He walked out of the bedroom and descended the winding stone staircase into the subterranean bowels of the estate. Down here, deep beneath the limestone foundations, the soundproofing was absolute.
Marco was waiting outside a reinforced steel door, holding a pair of heavy leather gloves and a folder of documents.
"Did the waiter talk?" Matteo asked, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion as he pulled on the gloves.
"He sang like a canary, Boss," Marco replied quietly. "Salvatore paid him fifty thousand dollars and promised him a safe passage to South America. The poison was concentrated digitalis—meant to induce an unstoppable cardiac arrest that would look like acute pregnancy-induced arrhythmia."
Matteo’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ground together. "And Salvatore?"
"He thought you were distracted with Ms. Park upstairs. He slipped away from the estate an hour ago. Our trackers picked up his convoy heading toward the old shipping docks at Pier 42. He has a private freighter waiting to take him out of state."
"He thinks he can run from me?" Matteo muttered, a dark, terrible smile touching his lips. "Call the strike team. No police. No witnesses. We take the docks."
Thirty minutes later, the rain was pounding against the rusted iron shipping containers of Pier 42 like a relentless drum. The river was black and churning violently beneath the docks. Salvatore stood near the gangplank of an old cargo vessel, barking orders at four heavily armed bodyguards as they loaded heavy duffel bags of illicit cash.
Suddenly, the floodlights of three armored SUVs illuminated the entire pier, blinding Salvatore’s men.
"Drop your weapons!" Marco’s voice boomed through a megaphone.
Salvatore’s men panicked, raising their submachine guns.
Muzzle flashes ripped through the night rain. But Matteo’s men were military-trained and positioned behind heavy ballistic shields. In less than forty seconds, the bodyguards were neutralized, collapsing onto the wet wooden planks.
Salvatore scrambled toward the gangplank on his hands and knees, terror painting his wrinkled face.
A heavy leather boot stepped firmly onto Salvatore’s outstretched hand, pinning his fingers against the wood with agonizing pressure.
Salvatore howled in pain, looking up into the rain.
Matteo stood over him, holding a long black umbrella in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other. Water dripped from the brim of his coat, but his expression was entirely devoid of human mercy.
"Matteo! Please! I am your blood! I am your father's brother!" Salvatore screamed through broken sobs. "It was business! Just business!"
"You tried to kill my child before it took its first breath," Matteo said, his voice quiet, calm, and heavier than a tombstone. "You tried to murder the only woman who ever looked at my blackened soul and saw a human being."
"I'll leave! I'll never return to this country! I swear it on the holy cross!"
Matteo slowly crouched down, tilting the umbrella so the rain washed over Salvatore’s terrified face.
"There is no cross that can save you from me, Uncle," Matteo whispered. "You broke the sacred law. You targeted the nursery."
Matteo stood back up. He didn't even look down as he raised the weapon.
A muffled phut.
The body rolled off the edge of the pier and splashed into the dark, churning depths of the river below, swallowed instantly by the black water.
May you like
Matteo lowered the weapon and handed it to Marco. He turned his back on the river, looking back toward the distant hills where the warm lights of his fortress glowed against the dark sky.
"Burn the dock," Matteo commanded calmly. "And call the estate. Tell them the king is coming home."
