Chapter 6 - The Queen's Gambit
Elena did not run to Oyster Bay.
Instead, she jammed Vittorio's heavy signet ring onto her thumb, slid the Walther PPK into the deep canvas pocket of her cleaning caddy, and took the service elevator down to the subterranean garage. Rocco, a scarred giant with a broken nose and a tactical vest dripping with sweat, raised his rifle as the elevator doors slid open—ready to fire until he saw the flash of the diamond ring catching the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Mrs. Moretti?" Rocco stared at her in utter disbelief, his weapon lowering by an inch. "The boss said you were evacuating through the sixty-ninth street tunnel."
"The boss is an idiot who thinks cleaning ladies don't know how to run a syndicate," Elena snapped, stepping out of the elevator with her chin held high, radiating a terrifying, ice-cold authority that made the veteran bodyguard instinctively take a half-step back. "Where is Marcone's primary communication relay being routed from? Don't lie to me, Rocco. I saw the ledger in the east library. I know every shell company Marcone uses to bleed this family dry."
Rocco swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the dead bodies visible through the open garage door cameras before meeting her gaze. Something shifted in the giant's expression—the absolute realization that the woman standing before him wasn't just Vittorio's legal loophole; she was cut from the exact same granite.
"Three blocks north," Rocco muttered, tapping a secure tablet against his thigh. "An abandoned printing press on Seventy-Fourth and Lexington. That's where Marcone is running the local extraction. If he takes Vittorio down, the commission votes to split our ports by morning."
May you like
"Get the tactical van ready," Elena commanded, pulling a black silk scarf from her caddy and tying her graying hair back into a tight, military-grade braid. "And bring extra magazines. We're going to crash a boardroom meeting."
Fifteen minutes later, the unmarked black van smashed through the rusted chain-link gates of the abandoned printing press on Lexington Avenue. Elena sat in the passenger seat with the Walther resting across her lap, her face calm, cold, and utterly terrifying. She wasn't just Daniel's mother anymore, and she wasn't just Vittorio's secret maid. She was a Moretti by registry, by blood, and by sheer, unadulterated willpower.
