Chapter 7 - The Empire’s Wrath
Down in the main foyer, Dante Moretti moved like an apex predator unleashed.
He had neutralized two of Rossi’s men in the dark hallway with cold, silent efficiency. Now, standing by the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the storm, he cornered Salvatore Rossi himself.
Rossi backed up against the marble balustrade, rain lashing across his face, his pistol raised with trembling hands.
“You’re finished, Moretti!” Rossi screamed over the thunder. “My men are clearing the penthouse right now! Your daughter—!”
“Your men,” a calm, icy voice interrupted from the hallway entrance, “are currently taking a nap in the flour bins.”
Rossi spun around.
Mara walked out of the kitchen corridor, dragging an unconscious mercenary by his tactical vest with one hand, while holding the assault rifle casually in the other. Behind her walked little Lena, holding a small wooden rolling pin like a baseball bat, looking entirely unimpressed by the syndicate war happening in her living room.
Dante looked at Mara, a breathtaking surge of pride and love washing over him.
Rossi raised his gun toward Mara in a desperate final gamble.
Bang.
Dante’s shot was instantaneous and precise, striking Rossi’s weapon and sending it flying over the edge of the penthouse balcony into the stormy abyss below.
Before Rossi could blink, Dante crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the rival boss by the collar of his designer coat, and slammed him against the glass.
“You touch my family,” Dante whispered, his voice carrying the terrifying weight of a man who had stared into hell and returned, “and I won't just take your empire. I’ll erase your name from history.”
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Within twenty minutes, federal marshals—tipped off by encrypted financial files Mara had secretly copied from Apex-style dummy corporations weeks earlier—arrived at the Hotel Aurelia. Salvatore Rossi and his remaining men were hauled away in handcuffs, their syndicate dismantled from the root by a combination of federal indictments and Moretti’s ruthless precision.
The storm finally broke, leaving a clean, rain-washed Manhattan gleaming beneath the first golden rays of dawn.
