Chapter 5 - The Siege of Brooklyn
The red LED on the detonator blinked with cruel, metronomic regularity.
Aleandro did not rush her. His training, his instincts, and his cold calculating mind locked into a singular focus. He knew that lunging across the desk would give her enough time to depress the switch.
“You’re willing to blow up your own father’s allies? Your own estate?” Aleandro asked, his voice steady as rock, buying fractions of a second.
“My father died six months ago, you fool,” Isabella snarled, her thumb pressing harder against the plastic casing of the detonator. “The Chicago syndicate owns our shipping terminals now. And they want Moretti Holdings burned to the ground.”
Click.
The heavy oak door of the study didn't open—it shattered inward under the force of a heavy tactical breach charge.
BOOM!
Before Isabella could scream, Marco Rivera rushed through the smoke and splintered wood, followed by three armed security operatives in black tactical vests. Marco raised his suppressed carbine with blinding speed and fired a single compressed-gas tranquilizer dart straight into Isabella’s neck.
Isabella’s eyes went wide. The detonator slipped from her trembling fingers, clattering harmlessly onto the Persian rug as her knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor before she could hit the activation button.
Marco rushed forward, kicking the detonator away, and knelt beside her, checking her pulse and reading the digital readout on the device.
“Boss,” Marco panted, looking up through the drifting smoke. “She was bluffing about the gas line being armed. It was a dummy trigger designed to cause panic. But... her panic signal went out to the gate monitors thirty seconds before we breached.”
Aleandro walked over, picking up the fallen detonator and slipping it into his coat pocket. He looked down at the unconscious woman who had nearly destroyed his empire.
“What does that mean?” Aleandro asked coldly.
“It means,” Marco said, standing up and cocking his carbine, “the Chicago syndicate’s strike team was waiting just outside the perimeter wall. They knew if Isabella failed to check in within five minutes, they were to storm the estate.”
As if on cue, a deafening explosion shook the outer grounds.
BOOM!
The heavy iron security gates at the front of the Moretti estate blew outward in a shower of twisted steel and flying concrete. Automatic gunfire erupted from the driveways as heavily armed mercenaries in unmarked tactical gear swarmed past the burning guard booths.
The war had come to the doorstep.
“Secure the fourth-floor suite,” Aleandro commanded instantly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a razor. “Protect Sophia and the child with your life.”
“On it, boss!” Marco shouted, motioning two operatives toward the private elevator shaft.
Aleandro pulled his custom Sig Sauer pistol from his shoulder holster, checking the magazine with a practiced click. The smoke from the broken door drifted across his study, catching the amber light of the desk lamp.
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For two years, he had believed his greatest vulnerability was letting someone close enough to touch his heart. Tonight, he realized his mistake wasn't loving—it was failing to see that true loyalty didn't wear diamonds or bear a high-society name.
It wore a maid’s uniform and carried a stuffed rabbit.
