Chapter 4 - A TRAITOR AT THE TABLE
The cold screen glared back at me as Marco Rossi adjusted his cufflink, savoring his perceived victory. For five years, Marco had stood at my left shoulder during council sit-downs and turf wars. I had pulled him out of the gutter in South Boston, made him a multi-millionaire, and trusted him with the logistics of the North American distribution network.
"You always were too ambitious for your intelligence, Marco," I said, leaning over the desk microphone, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion.
Marco chuckled, though a flicker of unease crossed his eyes. He knew me too well. A furious Alessandro Duca was dangerous; a silent, calm Alessandro Duca was an extinction-level threat.
"The old ways are dead, Alessandro," Marco spat. "You refused to deal with the Russian cartels, you refused to poison the streets with synthetic fentanyl, and you held back forty million dollars that belonged to the syndicate! Zurich offered me the throne. All I had to do was eliminate the Duca bloodline. Your brother is gone. And tonight, you, that girl, and that bastard baby die together in that high-tech coffin."
The feed severed. The hum of the central ventilation system died instantly, replaced by the ominous hiss of the auxiliary emergency intake shutting down.
"We have seven minutes before the carbon dioxide levels make it impossible to fight," Elena said, struggling to sit up. She wrapped her jacket around Mia, securing the baby against her chest with a makeshift cloth sling.
"We aren't dying in this room," I said grimly.
I walked to the eastern wall of the office, pressing my hand against the seamless walnut paneling. A hidden compartment slid open, revealing an arsenal that could arm a small private military: submachine guns, thermal goggles, fragmentation grenades, and two custom titanium-suppressed MPX carbines.
Mia looked up from Elena’s chest, her wide brown eyes watching me load 30-round magazines with practiced speed. She reached out a small hand toward the shiny brass casings on the table.
I stopped. For a fleeting second, the terrifying isolation that had defined my thirty-eight years of life dissolved. I gently tapped her tiny nose with the tip of my finger. "Stay quiet for Uncle Alessandro, little one," I murmured.
Mia let out a small chime of laughter, completely unfazed by the storm gathering around her.
"There's an emergency service shaft behind the wine cellar," I told Elena, handing her a compact 9mm pistol with the safety already disengaged. "It leads directly to the sub-basement parking grid. I have an armored Maybach parked in bay four."
"And what about Marco's men in the corridor?" Elena asked, gripping the weapon with surprising familiarity.
May you like
I racked the bolt of the MPX carbine with a sharp, lethal snap. "They're about to learn why this floor was declared off-limits."
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