Chapter 4 - The Fifteen-Year Venom
The clock in the central hallway of the Moretti mansion struck two in the morning.
While the lower floors were quiet and bathed in soft moonlight, Ryan Mercer stood inside his spacious second-floor office wing. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases, rare Renaissance oil paintings, and antique weapons.
Ryan poured himself two fingers of twenty-year-old scotch, swirling the amber liquid in a crystal glass. He walked over to his desk, where three encrypted satellite phones lay glowing side by side.
His plan had hit a bump when the child interrupted the wedding, but Ryan was not a man who panicked. In fifteen years of working beside Alessandro Moretti, he had learned that chaos was simply an unpolished diamond waiting to be carved.
He picked up the primary phone and dialed a private number.
“Is Marcus done with the boy?” Ryan asked smooth as silk into the receiver.
A voice answered, but it wasn't Marcus.
“Marcus is currently lying in the back of a delivery van, Ryan. His knee is shattered, and he’s weeping like a child.”
Ryan froze. The glass of scotch remained suspended halfway to his lips.
“Alessandro,” Ryan said, his tone instantly shifting into his warm, professional adviser persona. “Thank God you called. I’ve been analyzing the security feeds from this afternoon. I believe I’ve traced the intruder who approached Vanessa—"
“Stop talking, Ryan,” Alessandro’s voice came through the speaker, impossibly clear, calm, and terrifyingly close. “Look out your window.”
Ryan slowly turned toward the arched balcony doors overlooking the formal gardens.
Standing on the dark lawn below, illuminated by the floodlights of three silent black SUVs, was Alessandro Moretti. Beside him stood Luca, holding Marcus by the collar like a sack of trash, and beside them stood Sophia and little Emma.
Ryan’s jaw tightened. The warm, compassionate mask he had worn for fifteen years dissolved in an instant, replaced by a cold, bitter venom.
He slid open his desk drawer, pulled out a high-caliber revolver, slipped it into his waistband, and stepped out onto his balcony, leaning over the stone balustrade.
“You always were too sentimental, Alessandro!” Ryan called down, his voice carrying over the night breeze. “Just like your old man! Don Matteo lost his life because he trusted people too easily, and you’re going to lose your empire for the exact same reason!”
Alessandro didn't shout back. He took two steps forward, looking up at his trusted adviser.
“My father died of a stroke fifteen years ago, Ryan,” Alessandro said, his voice echoing across the quiet gardens. “At least, that’s what the family doctor told me.”
Ryan laughed—a harsh, dry sound that had no humor in it.
“Your father didn't have a stroke, you fool!” Ryan yelled down, his composure entirely gone now that his secret was exposed. “I put microscopic doses of thallium in his evening brandy for six months! A little every night, right under his nose, while I sat across from him playing chess!”
Beside Alessandro, Sophia covered her mouth in shock. Luca’s hand tightened around the grip of his sidearm until his knuckles turned gray.
“Why?” Alessandro asked quietly.
“Because I built the Moretti financial network!” Ryan shouted, his eyes wide with manic arrogance. “I laundered the money! I bought the judges! I made this family worth billions! And what did your father do? He gave me a five percent cut and called me his ‘faithful servant’! I was never his servant! I was the brain behind his muscle!”
Ryan pulled the revolver from his waist and pointed it straight down at Alessandro.
“I spent fifteen years waiting for the perfect moment to take what belongs to me!” Ryan screamed into the night. “I blackmailed that pathetic girl, I planted the charges under your hall, and I would have ruled this city by tomorrow morning!”
“You forgot one thing, Ryan,” Alessandro said softly, not even flinching at the sight of the gun aimed at his chest.
“What could I possibly have forgotten?!”
Alessandro reached down and gently placed his hand on four-year-old Emma’s shoulder.
“You forgot that the people you consider ‘nobodies’—the housekeepers, the drivers, the children who clean your mess—see everything,” Alessandro said, his voice ringing like a funeral bell. “You spent fifteen years watching the throne, Ryan. But you forgot to watch the floor.”
Before Ryan could pull the trigger, a red laser dot appeared directly on his chest.
THWIP.
May you like
A single high-velocity sniper round from the treeline struck Ryan’s right wrist. The revolver flew from his hand, shattering against the stone courtyard below. Ryan screamed, stumbling backward onto the balcony floor, clutching his bleeding arm.
“Luca,” Alessandro commanded coldly. “Bring him down.”
