Chapter 10 - THE ROTARY PHONE ON THE DESK
The air in the penthouse instantly turned to ice.
“Victor is downstairs?” I breathed, my mind spinning violently. “How did he get past your men at the airport? Marco said he put him on the plane!”
Alessandro’s face was a mask of furious calculation. He grabbed his encrypted cell phone from his pocket and hit Marco’s speed dial. The call went straight to voicemail.
“Marco isn't answering,” Alessandro said, the tension radiating from him in waves. He checked the clip in his semi-automatic, snapping it back into place with a sharp, lethal clack. “Victor must have bought off the detail escorting him. He’s had decades to plant loyalists in my ranks. I underestimated his desperation.”
“If he’s downstairs, he can’t get up here, right?” I asked, panic making my voice high and tight. “You said this penthouse is secure.”
“The elevators require a biometric scan,” Alessandro confirmed, walking quickly toward the panoramic windows to scan the streets below. “But Victor knows the override codes. He helped design this building’s security grid.”
A heavy, metallic thud echoed from the hallway outside our suite. The unmistakable sound of the private elevator arriving.
Alessandro moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the door and shoving me behind the heavy oak desk in the corner of the room.
“Stay down,” he ordered, his voice a low, uncompromising command. “Do not make a sound.”
He didn't take cover. He stood in the center of the ruined living room, his weapon raised, aimed dead center at the splintered doorway.
Seconds stretched into agonizing hours. My heart hammered so hard against my ribs I thought it might crack them. I clutched the silver heart locket around my neck, praying silently.
The heavy, broken door was slowly pushed open.
Victor Moretti stepped into the penthouse.
He looked entirely different from the nervous, cowardly man in the warehouse yesterday. He looked desperate, unhinged, and cornered. He wore a rumpled suit, his tie loosened, and he held a heavy, silver revolver aimed directly at Alessandro.
But he wasn't alone.
Standing behind Victor, looking pale, bruised, and absolutely terrified, with a gun pressed to the back of his head by one of Victor’s loyalists, was Brandon.
“Hello, Sandro,” Victor sneered, stepping further into the room, using Brandon as a human shield. “Did you really think you could exile me with a single plane ticket?”
Alessandro didn't flinch. His weapon remained perfectly steady, aimed at his uncle’s chest.
“You’re a dead man walking, Victor,” Alessandro stated coldly. “You stole from the family. You broke the code. There is nowhere on earth you can hide from the Commission now.”
“I don't need to hide!” Victor yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “I just need the three million dollars! With that kind of cash, I can buy a new identity, a new life! I can disappear!”
He jerked his gun toward Brandon.
“I found this pathetic rat crying in the alley behind your restaurant after you let him go,” Victor sneered. “He told me about the marriage. He told me you authorized the withdrawal of the trust funds.”
Victor’s pale, manic eyes locked onto Alessandro.
“Transfer the money to my untraceable accounts right now, Sandro,” Victor demanded, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Or I blow this idiot’s brains all over your expensive rug, and then I kill you and the girl.”
From behind the desk, I stared at Brandon. The man I had loved, the man who had betrayed me, was sobbing silently, his knees buckling in terror. He looked pathetic. He looked broken.
“I’m not giving you the money, Victor,” Alessandro said smoothly, his voice devoid of all fear. “The money is already gone. I wired it to the Falcone accounts an hour ago to trigger an FBI raid.”
Victor froze. The color completely drained from his face.
“You’re lying,” Victor breathed, shaking his head frantically. “You wouldn't just give away three million dollars!”
“It was never my money,” Alessandro replied simply. “It was stolen. And it served its purpose. The Falcones are finished. And you have nothing.”
The reality of his absolute defeat crashed over Victor. His hands shook violently. He had lost his power, his family, and his fortune. He was cornered, with no way out.
“Then I’ll just kill you both for the satisfaction of it,” Victor growled, a mad, desperate light igniting in his eyes. He raised the silver revolver, aiming it directly at Alessandro’s head.
“No!” I screamed, tearing out from behind the desk before I could stop myself.
I didn't have a plan. I just acted on pure, blinding adrenaline. I grabbed a heavy, crystal whiskey decanter from the wet bar next to the desk and hurled it with all my strength toward Victor.
The heavy crystal flew across the room, striking Victor squarely in the shoulder just as he pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening. The bullet went wide, shattering a mirrored pillar inches from Alessandro’s head.
Victor stumbled back, dropping the revolver, clutching his shoulder with a howl of pain.
The loyalist holding Brandon was momentarily distracted by the chaos.
Alessandro didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, closing the distance in a blur of motion. He didn't fire his weapon—he didn't want to risk hitting Brandon in the crossfire.
Instead, Alessandro swung the heavy steel barrel of his pistol, striking the loyalist brutally across the jaw. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious instantly.
Victor scrambled backward, his eyes wide with terror, crawling desperately toward the hallway.
But Alessandro stepped on his chest, pinning his uncle to the floor with the sole of his heavy boot. He aimed the pistol down, right between Victor’s panicked eyes.
“You brought a gun into my home, Victor,” Alessandro whispered, the lethal, terrifying mafia boss fully unleashed. “You threatened my wife. You threatened a child.”
“Sandro, please!” Victor begged, sobbing hysterically, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m your blood! I’m your family!”
“My family is in the next room,” Alessandro said coldly.
He didn't shoot him. He didn't have to.
The heavy doors of the penthouse burst open. Marco stormed into the room, breathing heavily, followed by a dozen heavily armed, loyal Moretti capos.
“Boss, I’m so sorry,” Marco panted, looking at the scene. “Victor paid off my driver. They locked me in the security vault downstairs. It took me twenty minutes to blow the electronic lock.”
“It’s fine, Marco,” Alessandro said, not taking his eyes off his uncle. “Take him. Take them both to the holding cells. The Commission will handle Victor tonight. And throw Brandon out on the street. If I ever see his face again, shoot him on sight.”
Marco nodded, grabbing Victor by the collar and dragging the screaming, pathetic man out of the penthouse.
Brandon scrambled to his feet, crying uncontrollably. He looked at me, opening his mouth to speak, but the absolute, cold disgust in my eyes silenced him. He turned and ran out the door, disappearing into the city he had tried to exploit.
The room fell quiet, the echoes of violence fading into the morning light.
Alessandro lowered his gun. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline finally crashing, leaving him leaning heavily against the wall.
I walked over to him, wrapping my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest. He held me tight, dropping his chin to the top of my head, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping his lips.
“It’s over,” I whispered, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. “It’s really over.”
“It is,” Alessandro agreed softly.
He pulled back slightly, looking down at me. The dark, impenetrable mask was completely gone, replaced by a profound, unyielding love.
“I told you I’d protect you,” Alessandro murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“You did,” I smiled, a warm, genuine expression that felt foreign but wonderful on my face. “But I think I protected you a little bit, too.”
Alessandro laughed, a rich, rich sound that filled the ruined penthouse. “Remind me never to stand between you and a crystal decanter.”
He leaned down and kissed me, a slow, gentle promise of a future I never could have imagined.
But as we pulled apart, the quiet moment was interrupted by a hesitant voice from the hallway.
“Jess?”
I turned. Caleb was standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, rubbing his eyes, wearing the same gray hoodie he had slept in.
He looked at the shattered windows, the broken furniture, and the bullet holes in the walls.
May you like
Then he looked at me, a sleepy, bewildered expression on his teenage face.
“Did I miss something?” Caleb asked.
