Chapter 2 - The Fountain Behind the Roses
The chill October rain began falling in thin, icy needles just past midday, slicking the limestone pathways of the sprawling estate. High in the south wing, inside an unlit second-floor study, Marco Greco stood completely motionless behind heavy velvet drapes. A pair of military-grade thermal binoculars was pressed against his eyes. Behind him, Dante leaned against the mahogany mantelpiece, having discarded the charade of the dressing gown for a fitted black tactical sweater. His fever had broken, leaving behind an icy, lethal clarity.
“He took the path by the old sundial again,” Marco muttered without lowering the glass. His weathered face, scarred from three decades of protecting the Moretti bloodline, was carved from stone. “He pauses right where the Camera 7 sweep ends. Three paces left of the marble cherub. He’s pretending to inspect the dead hydrangeas.”
“Show me the dead zone overlay,” Dante commanded quietly.
Marco tapped the screen of a secured tablet resting on the low table. The digital map of the estate flashed green and red. The blind spot Sophie had identified wasn't an accident of landscape architecture; it was an engineered surveillance corridor. It stretched exactly forty feet between the blind angles of Cameras 7 and 8, terminating at a disused ornamental fountain choked with ivy and dry moss.
“The work order to close this angle was filed eight weeks ago,” Marco said, his voice thick with suppressed fury. “Marcus cancelled it twice. Said the union electricians were overbilling and that he’d hire his own private sub-contractors after the quarterly audit. Dante... he’s been meeting someone down there. Or leaving something.”
Dante walked to the window, peering through the rain-streaked glass. In the distance, fifty yards away, Marcus stood beneath a black umbrella, checking his wristwatch before crouching near the rusted iron basin of the fountain. His hand slipped beneath the crumbling stone lip for less than two seconds. He stood up, adjusted his silk tie, turned toward the driveway, and stepped briskly toward his black sedan.
“Do we intercept him at the front gate?” Marco asked, his hand dropping instinctively toward the concealed holster beneath his arm.
“No,” Dante replied, his voice dead and cold. “If we move now, he claims he was just dropping an old coin for luck. He’ll lawyer up, his loyalists will scream mutiny, and the people pulling his strings will vanish into the shadows. I want to know who is buying thirty-five years of brotherhood.”
Five minutes after Marcus’s car cleared the main gates, Dante and Marco stood in the soaking drizzle beside the dried fountain. The rain drummed against the stone basin. Dante reached his bare hand beneath the crumbling eastern edge of the masonry, his fingers searching along the damp limestone.
His fingertips brushed against cold, water-resistant industrial tape.
With a sharp pull, Dante tore a magnetic weatherproof lockbox from the hidden recess beneath the stone lip. Inside sat a brand-new encrypted satellite burner phone and a miniature high-speed flash drive wrapped in velvet.
Marco took the phone, plugging an analytical bridge into the data port. Within thirty seconds, the screen bypassed the basic firewall. A series of outgoing text messages flashed on the monitor.
‘Target is down with severe viral fever. Unconscious or delirious most of the day. The shipment manifest for the Jersey City docks is in my possession. Alert the federal task force. Intercept the dry docks at 22:00 sharp. I will assume full control of the Moretti assets before sunrise.’
The recipient number was registered to a shell company in Brooklyn—an address well known to both men as the primary front for Don Salvatore Calvini, the Moretti family’s bloodiest and most vicious rival.
Marco let out a low, ragged breath. “My God. He isn't just leaking information. He’s orchestrating a total decapitation.”
Dante stared at the little plastic drive in his palm, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. This was the man who had stood beside him at his daughter Lucia’s funeral. The man who had wept openly into his shoulder while the tiny white casket was lowered into the earth.
“Put the box back,” Dante whispered.
May you like
Marco looked up, stunned. “Boss?”
“Put it back exactly where you found it,” Dante said, his dark eyes turning pitch-black with terrifying purpose. “If Marcus wants to deliver a trap tonight at the Jersey docks, we are going to let him. But the only rat getting caught in the cage will be him.”
