Chapter 8 - The Judas at the Table
By 4:00 AM, the rain over the Moretti estate had slowed to a miserable, icy drizzle.
Inside the grand dining hall, Marcus sat at the head of the long mahogany table, nursing a crystal glass of scotch. He was dressed in a pristine grey suit, his hair slicked back, a confident, satisfied smile resting on his lips.
Standing near the fireplace were four of his personal enforcers, their jackets unbuttoned, hands resting near their holstered sidearms.
Marcus picked up his phone, dialing a secure number. “Is the West Wing detail still posted?”
“Yes, Marcus,” a guard replied over the line. “Isabella is still locked in her room.”
“Good,” Marcus purred softly, swirling his scotch. “When Aleandro returns from his search tonight, I’ll make sure he handles the traitor personally. By sunrise, this family will have a new leader.”
The heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open with a slow, ominous groan.
Aleandro walked into the room.
He wore no armor now—only a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark tattoos along his wrist. He looked calm, unhurried, and completely composed as he walked toward the mahogany table.
Marcus’s eyes flickered with a sudden, subtle flash of surprise, but he quickly hid it behind a warm, welcoming smile.
“Aleandro!” Marcus exclaimed, standing up and spreading his arms wide. “You’re back! Did Dante manage to trace the blackmailer’s signal from the bug?”
Aleandro walked to the opposite end of the thirty-foot table, pulling out a heavy leather chair and sitting down slowly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small glass object, and set it on the polished wood.
It was the black listening device he had pulled from behind the painting.
“I found the signal, Marcus,” Aleandro said smoothly, leaning back in his chair.
Marcus’s smile tightened slightly. “That’s wonderful news, brother. Who was behind it? Was it Cassian Vance?”
“It was Cassian,” Aleandro agreed, steepling his fingers. “He’s dead now. His men are gone. And little Clara is upstairs in the West Wing, sleeping safely in her aunt’s arms.”
The air in the grand dining hall turned instantly ice cold.
Marcus’s hand froze mid-air, hovering two inches above his scotch glass. The four enforcers near the fireplace shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting toward the exits.
“Clara?” Marcus stammered, his voice losing its confident edge. “You… you found the girl?”
“I did,” Aleandro murmured. “And do you know what Cassian told me right before I put a bullet through his head?”
Marcus swallowed hard, a thin sheen of cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. “He… he was a liar, Aleandro. You can’t trust a word that rat said—”
“He told me who gave him the girl’s address in New Jersey,” Aleandro interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl that echoed off the high ceilings. “He told me who bought the military bug. And he told me who planned to take my chair once I executed Isabella for treason.”
Marcus didn't waste another second.
He reached frantically into his shoulder holster, drawing his 9mm pistol!
BANG!
A sniper shot smashed through the high stained-glass window of the dining hall!
The bullet tore directly through Marcus’s wrist, shattering his watch and sending his gun flying across the mahogany table!
Marcus shrieked in pain, falling back into his chair, clutching his bleeding arm.
At the same time, the side doors of the dining hall were kicked open! Marco and eight loyal Moretti tactical guards flooded the room, their submachine guns aimed directly at Marcus’s four enforcers.
“Drop your weapons!” Marco barked. “Drop them now or you die where you stand!”
Terrified and completely outmatched, the four enforcers raised their hands, unclipping their holsters and letting their weapons crash onto the marble floor.
Aleandro stood up slowly from his chair. He walked down the length of the long mahogany table, his heavy leather shoes making a rhythmic, deliberate sound against the floor.
He stopped right beside Marcus, looking down at his childhood friend with eyes that held no mercy, no pity, and no warmth.
“Fifteen years, Marcus,” Aleandro whispered softly.
“Aleandro… please…” Marcus wept, clutching his bloody wrist as tears of terror streamed down his face. “I was tired of being in your shadow! I built half this empire! I deserved a seat at the top!”
“You deserved my trust,” Aleandro replied, reaching out and gently taking the crystal glass of scotch from the table. He tipped it over, pouring the golden liquid slowly over Marcus’s head. “And you traded it for trash.”
May you like
Aleandro turned his back on him, walking toward the exit.
“Gideon,” Aleandro commanded quietly to his chief enforcer. “Take him down to the cellar. He stays there until the council meets tomorrow night.”
