Chapter 6 - The Anatomy of a Betrayal
Within ninety seconds, the brief firefight was over. The two assassins lay motionless on the grass, neutralized by the Moretti enforcers, while the black sedan sped away into the afternoon traffic to avoid the police sirens wailing in the distance.
Aleandro stood amid the scattered picnic wrappers and fallen ice cream cones, his chest heaving slightly, his fingers wrapped around the grip of his pistol.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out with one hand. The caller ID displayed a single name: Marco.
Aleandro pressed accept.
“Boss,” Marco’s voice came through the speaker, calm, steady, and filled with a sickening theatrical concern. “I just received reports of gunfire near Willow Creek Park. Are you alright? My God, I told you taking the girl out was a security risk. Should I send a clean-up crew?”
Aleandro stared down at the purple paint still faintly visible on his right thumb.
“How did they know we were at Willow Creek Park, Marco?” Aleandro asked, his voice dangerously soft.
There was a fraction of a second of silence on the line. Just a fraction.
“Sir?” Marco replied smoothly. “There are leaks everywhere. The Falcone family has informants all over the city. It’s a miracle—”
“Only three people knew the exact route,” Aleandro interrupted, cutting him off. “You, me, and the dispatcher. And I didn't tell a soul.”
Silence hung heavily over the phone line.
“You’ve been by my side for ten years, Marco,” Aleandro continued, his eyes narrowing as he looked across the park toward the horizon where the Manhattan skyline pierced the clouds. “You knew every combination, every route, every weakness. And you decided that a three-year-old child eating strawberry ice cream was a threat to the Moretti throne.”
On the other end of the line, the polite, subservient tone vanished. The silence stretched, and then, a low, cold chuckle echoed through the speaker.
“You’re going soft, Aleandro,” Marco’s voice hissed, devoid of all pretense now. “Ten years I’ve bled for this family. I’ve buried our enemies, I’ve cleaned up your messes, and now you’re risking an empire for a dead construction worker’s brat? If you won’t protect the legacy, someone has to. And by the time you get back to the estate, you’ll find that the housekeeping staff and her daughter have already... relocated.”
The line went dead.
Aleandro lowered the phone. His face had turned to stone.
“Mr. Moretti?” Maria whispered from behind the concrete wall, clutching Sophia tightly against her chest, tears streaming down her face. “Who... who was that?”
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Aleandro turned around, looking down at the mother and child. The raw, protective fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever.
“Get in the car,” Aleandro said, his voice an absolute decree of war. “We’re going home.”
