Chapter 4 - The Golden Falcon
The confrontation with Emilio Moretti arrived faster than expected.
Through the crude license plate number Mia had memorized, Fausto’s hackers tracked Emilio’s encrypted communications directly to a private airfield outside Bergamo. Emilio was preparing to board a chartered Gulfstream jet to Zurich, taking three duffel bags filled with bearer bonds, diamonds, and laundered cash.
Lorenzo did not send a death squad. He went himself.
Flanked by eight black SUVs and twelve heavily armed enforcers, Lorenzo arrived at the hangar just as the private jet’s engines began to whine. Four of Emilio’s private security guards drew their weapons, but they were cut down within three seconds by Fausto’s precision riflemen.
Emilio was dragged out of the passenger boarding stairs by his expensive cashmere coat collar and thrown onto the cold, grease-stained tarmac. He landed directly at the polished leather boots of Lorenzo Cattaneo.
Lorenzo leaned on his cane, looking down at the trembling, fifty-year-old corporate executive who had tried to have him assassinated.
""Emilio,"" Lorenzo greeted him coldly. ""You're leaving Italy without saying goodbye to your favorite nephew.""
""Lorenzo! Please!"" Emilio wept, his hands raised in surrender, his custom Patek Philippe watch with the golden falcon glinting under the harsh floodlights. ""It wasn't my idea! The syndicates from the south... they squeezed me! They said if I didn't eliminate you, they would butcher my family in their sleep!""
""You had a gunman fire five rounds into my courtyard,"" Lorenzo said, his voice terrifyingly calm. ""One shattered my leg. Two broke my ribs. And the bullets were fired less than twenty yards from where a three-year-old child was playing in the grass.""
Emilio blinked in frantic confusion. ""A child? What child? What are you talking about?!""
Lorenzo reached down with his free hand, grabbed Emilio by the hair, and forced his face upward. ""You brought war into my home, Emilio. You violated the oldest rule our fathers wrote: the bloodline and the hearth are sacred.""
""I have money! Millions!"" Emilio pleaded, tears cutting tracks through the grease on his cheeks. ""Take the bonds! Take the shipping terminals! Just let me take the plane to Switzerland!""
""You gave my route to the shooter,"" Lorenzo said, ignoring the pathetic bargaining. ""Who gave you the timing? Who told you I would cross the courtyard at nine-fourteen?""
Emilio shook violently, knowing that revealing the final secret was his only slim chance at survival. ""Marco! It was Marco! He wanted your seat at the council! He promised to secure the northern borders if I financed the takeover!""
Behind Lorenzo, Fausto stepped forward, his expression darkening. Marco had been with the Cattaneo organization for eight years.
""Search Marco’s quarters at the villa,"" Lorenzo commanded Fausto without looking back. ""Lock down the perimeter. Ensure Sofia and Mia are secured in the central vault.""
""Already done, Boss,"" Fausto replied, pulling out his radio.
Lorenzo let go of Emilio’s hair, letting the traitor’s face slam back down onto the cold concrete. He turned to his men. ""Put him in a container. Ship him to the warehouse in Brescia. I will deal with him once my home is clean.""
Thirty minutes later, Lorenzo was riding back toward the villa in the back of his armored Maybach. His leg throbbed with intense, biting pain from the exertion, and his ribs felt like shattered glass against his lungs. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.
The betrayal ran deeper than he had imagined. If Marco was involved, the villa was compromised from the inside. Marco knew the alarm overrides. He knew the guard rotations. And more importantly, Marco was currently stationed at the main estate gates.
Suddenly, Lorenzo’s private phone vibrated violently against his chest. It was the emergency dispatch frequency from the villa.
Lorenzo snatched the phone. ""Report.""
Static hissed through the speaker, followed by the frantic sound of gunfire and shouting.
""Don Lorenzo!"" a guard yelled over the din of automatic weapons. ""Marco breached the south corridor! He cut the emergency generators! He took the kitchen staff hostage in the grand salon—he has the Ferraro girl!""
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Lorenzo’s vision went completely red. The pain in his shattered knee vanished beneath an overwhelming surge of primal fury.
""Turn the cars around,"" Lorenzo roared to his driver, slamming his fist against the leather divider. ""Floor it! If Marco touches a single hair on that child’s head, I will burn this entire country to the ground!""
