Chapter 7 - The Final Confrontation
Luca moved swiftly, disarming the weeping woman and kicking Marcus’s revolver across the marble floor. Two heavily armed Moretti enforcers stepped through the ruined wall, forcing Marcus onto his knees beside his daughter with cold, practiced efficiency.
The grand drawing room smelled of burnt gunpowder, pulverized plaster, and the sharp tang of cheap bourbon. Outside, the rain beat a relentless cadence against the tall windows, washing away the remnants of the night’s violence.
Marcus raised his head, blood trickling from a scratch on his temple where falling debris had clipped him. Despite his defeat, his eyes burned with a bitter, venomous hatred. ""Kill me then, boy. Do what your father didn't have the stomach to do. But don't lecture me about loyalty. Your family took everything that was supposed to be mine!""
Dante pulled a plush armchair across the floor, its wooden legs scraping sharply against the marble, and sat directly in front of the kneeling patriarch. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his face inches from his former mentor.
""My father gave you half his kingdom, Marcus,"" Dante said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. ""He made you a millionaire ten times over. He treated you like a brother. Why? Why murder the only man who protected you?""
""Because I didn't want his charity!"" Marcus snarled, spitting blood onto the rug. ""I was smarter than Antonio! I was the architect of the syndicate's empire, and he took all the glory while I stood in the background holding his coat! When I slipped the potassium into his wine twenty years ago, I felt like a god. And watching you grow up, trusting me, hanging on my every word... it was poetry. You were my greatest pet, Dante.""
A dangerous silence hung in the room. Luca raised his rifle, his finger tightening on the trigger, waiting for the command. But Dante raised a single hand, halting him.
""You think you’re a god, Marcus? You’re just a parasite,"" Dante said coldly. ""And a clumsy one at that. You thought you wiped out my father’s archives when you burned his office after the funeral. But Antonio Moretti was far more paranoid than you ever gave him credit for.""
Dante reached into his inner breast pocket and pulled out a worn, leather-bound journal—the handwriting inside unmistakable to Marcus’s eyes.
Marcus's pupils dilated in sudden, suffocating horror. ""Where... where did you get that?""
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""In the vault beneath the chapel,"" Dante said softly, turning a page. ""My father knew you were skimming from the transport lines twenty years ago. He knew Katherine wasn't dead. He even knew about the poison you had synthesized. He kept this record not to destroy you, but to protect me. He wrote here that if he ever died suddenly, I was to spare your life until you revealed the entire network of your conspirators.""
Dante closed the book with a resounding thud. ""You spent twenty years waiting for the right moment to kill me, Marcus. But my father spent twenty years ensuring that the moment you struck, you would bury yourself.""
