Chapter 7 - The Lockdowm at the Estate
The midnight-blue Alfa Romeo screeched through the iron gates of the Moretti estate, but the heavy oak doors of the main manor were barred from the inside.
Aleandro killed the engine and stepped out into the courtyard. The estate was eerily quiet. The perimeter guards—men loyal to Marco—were stationed around the main drive with weapons raised, blocking the entrance.
Marco stepped out onto the grand stone portico, flanked by four heavily armed capos. He held a silver cigar cutter in one hand, clicking it rhythmically.
“End of the line, boss,” Marco called out, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “You had a good run. But dynasties aren’t built on playgrounds and ice cream. Drop the weapon and walk away, and maybe I’ll let the girl and her mother leave the state alive.”
Maria gripped the passenger handle inside the car, terror choking her breath. “Aleandro... don’t. There’s too many of them.”
Aleandro didn’t flinch. He didn't look back.
He slowly reached into his jacket, pulled out his Glock, and tossed it onto the hood of the Alfa Romeo with a metallic clatter.
Marco smiled triumphantly, stepping down the stone steps. “Smart choice, Aleandro. You always knew when the odds were—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
With blinding speed, Aleandro kicked the edge of the car door, slamming it outward while simultaneously dropping to a low crouch. From beneath the driver’s floor mat, he drew a backup tactical submachine gun that Marco’s men had failed to check for.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Bullets chewed into the stone pillars directly above Marco’s head, showering him in marble dust. The four capos flanking Marco scrambled for cover, but before they could raise their rifles, the side gates of the estate blew open with a deafening crash.
Two armored vans bearing the insignia of the older Moretti loyalists—veteran capos whom Marco had underestimated—stormed into the courtyard.
Within seconds, the tables turned completely. Marco’s men found themselves caught in a devastating crossfire, their weapons knocked from their hands as they were forced to the ground.
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Marco stumbled backward, his face draining of all color as the cold barrel of Aleandro’s weapon pressed firmly against the center of his forehead.
“You forgot one rule, Marco,” Aleandro whispered, his voice like grinding ice. “A Moretti never trusts a shadow that tries to eclipse the sun.”
