Chapter 8 - The Trap Springs
The afternoon sun offered no warmth as it beat down on the gravel courtyard of the Moretti estate.
Inside the private kitchen, Sophia kept Emma locked safely in the corner pantry, giving her a box of crackers and a picture book to keep her quiet. Sophia’s heart hammered against her ribs. She had seen the way Marco Bianchi rushed into the main house twenty minutes ago, his hand resting instinctively near his holster. She had seen the guards doubling up at the perimeter gates.
Something catastrophic was happening behind the heavy mahogany doors of the master wing.
Upstairs, in the executive study, the air was thick with the scent of gunsmoke and impending violence.
Carlo Ricci stood by the mahogany desk, his hands resting neatly folded in front of him. Across from him stood Alessandro Moretti, perfectly still, his massive frame radiating an aura of lethal, controlled fury. Marco Bianchi stood near the locked door, blocking the only exit, his Sig Sauer drawn and pointed downward at the floor.
"You’ve been auditing the wrong books, Alessandro," Carlo said, his voice remarkably steady, devoid of any fear. A chilling, confident smile played across his lips. "You and your father both. You thought power came from holding a gun and spilling blood in the streets. You never realized that real power belongs to the man who manages the numbers."
Alessandro didn't yell. He didn't smash the desk. He simply took one slow, deliberate step toward Carlo.
"Fifteen years," Alessandro said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated through the room. "My father brought you in off the streets when you were drowning in gambling debts. I kept you by my side, gave you an empire to manage, and trusted you with every secret in this house."
"Trust is a weakness, Boss," Carlo replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a lifetime of hidden resentment. "Salvatore treated me like an accountant with a glorified title. And you... you treated me like a fixture in the hallway. Well, the fixture is taking over. By sunset, Frank Solanzio’s men will control every shipping lane from here to Montreal. Your guards have already been paid off or neutralized at the perimeter gates."
Marco let out a harsh, bitter laugh, keeping his pistol leveled at Carlo’s chest. "You arrogant bastard. You really think Solanzio is going to let you run the empire? He’ll put a bullet in your head the second the ink dries on the transfer papers."
"Perhaps," Carlo admitted calmly, reaching into his suit jacket. "Or perhaps I’m smarter than both of you."
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Before Marco could react, Carlo whipped his hand out of his jacket—not holding a pen, but a heavy, matte-black Walther PPK fitted with a custom silencer.
He didn't aim at Alessandro. He aimed straight at Marco.
