Chapter 2 - The Secret Guard
Ten floors below the private dining room, in the underground security monitoring suite of the Moretti estate, Marco Ricci stood before a wall of twelve glowing high-definition monitors.
The screens displayed every corner of the sprawling compound: the iron gates facing Lake Shore Drive, the perimeter walls patrolled by armed guards in black tactical gear, the private garage filled with armored sedans, and the private living quarters upstairs.
Marco’s phone buzzed in his hand. He swiped the screen and pressed it to his ear.
“Report,” Marco said.
“It’s Dante, Mr. Ricci,” came the voice of the head of perimeter security through the secure comm-line. “We’ve got movement outside the eastern service gate. Two unmarked black sedans just pulled over by the public park down the road. They’re running surveillance on the main entrance.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed. The Solanzio family. Ever since the turf negotiations broke down last week, Frank Solanzio had been looking for any weakness in the Moretti perimeter. A public appearance outside the estate—especially one involving Aleandro stepping out without his usual armored detail—would be a bloodbath waiting to happen.
“Are they armed?” Marco asked, his voice dropping into ice.
“Clear visual on at least four men inside the lead vehicle. They’ve got automatic hardware. They’re waiting for something big.”
Marco stared at the central monitor, which showed Aleandro walking down the grand staircase toward his private suite, deep in thought. For ten years, Marco had protected Aleandro from assassins, federal indictments, and rival syndicates. He knew every rule of the underworld. Rule number one: never let your guard down. Rule number two: never let a weakness become a target.
And tomorrow, Aleandro Moretti was walking into a public preschool on the Upper East Side with a three-year-old girl, carrying no weapon, wearing no Kevlar, and surrounded by screaming children.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Marco instructed the head of security, his grip tightening around his phone until his knuckles turned white. “Double the perimeter guard around the estate tonight. I want every tactical unit on high alert. And for tomorrow... I’m personally heading the advance team.”
“Advance team, sir? For a preschool?”
“You didn't see the look in the boss’s eyes when that little girl talked about her father,” Marco said grimly. “Aleandro is doing this because he sees something he lost a long time ago. If anyone—I mean anyone from the Solanzio crew or anywhere else—tries to turn tomorrow into a battlefield, you make sure they don't live long enough to draw a second breath.”
“Understood, Mr. Ricci.”
Marco hung up the phone and turned toward the massive glass gun locker lining the back wall of the control room. He reached out, unlocked the heavy steel door, and pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol, sliding extra magazines into his vest pocket.
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He had sworn an oath to the Moretti family twelve years ago. He had bled for this empire. But as he looked at the schedule on his desk—8:00 a.m. - Preschool Family Day—Marco realized that the biggest war Aleandro Moretti was about to fight wasn't against the mafia.
It was against the ghosts of his own past.
