Chapter 3 - The Gathering in the Dark
Warehouse 14 was a cavernous, rotting relic of the midwest industrial boom, filled with stacks of weathered wooden pallets and decaying freight containers.
Two modified high-beam floodlights illuminated the center concrete bay, casting long, distorted shadows across the wet floorboards.
Adrian Moretti stood beside a polished mahogany folding table, dressed in a custom camel-hair coat, impatiently swirling a silver flask of bourbon.
Across from him, Robert Bellini was methodically arranging five thick yellow envelopes on the tabletop.
"Is that the entire maritime transit schedule?" Adrian demanded, taking a heavy swig from his flask. "I need the port authority clearance codes for the South American cargo arriving Thursday."
"Everything is here, Adrian," Robert replied with his signature, emotionless composure. "The manifests, the offshore shell accounts, and the private security rotations."
"And the leverage?" Adrian’s lips twisted into an arrogant, venomous smirk. "Did you secure the girl?"
Robert paused, adjusting his gold wire-rimmed glasses. "Matteo was awake in the library when I pulled the final files. The child was asleep on the sofa."
"You should have grabbed them both right then!" Adrian snapped, slamming his silver flask onto the table. "With the maid and her brat in a secure safehouse, Matteo would sign over the entire family trust without firing a single shot! He’s gone soft since that woman started working in the east wing!"
"Matteo is many things, Adrian," Robert said smoothly. "Soft is not an adjective I would ever apply to him."
"He's weak!" Adrian snarled, pacing across the cracked concrete. "He spent ten years hoarding the legitimate corporate contracts while treating me like an intern on an allowance! I built the relationship with the Luciano syndicate in New York! I arranged the distribution routes!"
A slow, rhythmic clapping suddenly echoed from the cavernous darkness at the far end of the warehouse.
The sound was deliberate, heavy, and terrifyingly calm.
Adrian froze, his flask slipping from his fingers and splashing across the blueprints.
Robert’s posture stiffened instantly, his hand moving reflexively toward his inner breast pocket.
"Don't reach for that piece, Robert," a familiar baritone rumbled from the shadows. "You know how fast my people clear leather."
Out from the black void stepped Matteo Moretti, surrounded by eight tactical operators in black body armor with suppressed carbines raised and red targeting lasers painting the center of Robert's chest.
Matteo walked forward without a weapon in his hand, his black Italian suit completely dry despite the downpour outside.
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His face was an expressionless mask of pure, absolute finality.
"You always did have champagne tastes on a beer allowance, little brother," Matteo said.
