Chapter 8 - The Betrayal
Plaster and dust rained down from the grand ceiling. Panic turned into total chaos as hundreds of high-society guests stampeded toward the main exits of the Plaza Hotel.
Rico’s survival instincts ignited instantly. He shoved Clara behind a thick marble pillar, drawing his concealed pistol from beneath his tuxedo jacket.
“Leo!” Clara screamed over the din of shouting people. “Rico, Leo is upstairs!”
“Dante!” Rico roared into his encrypted earpiece. “Dante, report!”
Only static filled the earbud. Then, a cold, mocking voice cut through the channel.
“Dante is taking a nap, nephew,” Salvatore Moretti’s voice echoed through the earpiece. “And your little boy is coming with me.”
Rico’s face turned into a mask of pure, apocalyptic rage. “Sal! If you lay one finger on my son, I will skin you alive!”
“You went soft, Rico,” Sal laughed coldly over the radio. “You’re giving away our family’s territory to Lorenzo? You’re marrying a waitress? You destroyed the Moretti name! The Luciano family paid me fifty million dollars to hand over the boy. He’ll be raised by real men on the West Coast.”
The radio went dead.
Clara grabbed Rico’s arm, her face white as paper. “Rico, please! We have to get him!”
“Stay behind me!” Rico ordered, his voice echoing with absolute lethargy as he charged toward the service stairs leading to the penthouse suites.
They sprinted up four flights of stairs, stepping over the unconscious bodies of two guards. When they kicked open the door to the top-floor suite, the room was torn apart. The windows leading to the private rooftop helipad were shattered.
Outside on the rain-slicked roof, the deafening roar of helicopter blades cut through the night air.
Rico and Clara burst out onto the roof just as a sleek black chopper was revving its engines, preparing to lift off.
Standing near the open side door of the helicopter was Salvatore Moretti, holding a crying three-year-old Leo under his arm like a sack of grain.
“Sal!” Rico roared, raising his gun, leveling the sight straight at his uncle’s head.
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“Shoot me, nephew!” Sal screamed over the roar of the rotors, holding Leo in front of his chest like a human shield. “Shoot me and you kill your own boy!”
Leo saw Clara through the rain, his little face streaked with tears. “CLARA! PAPÀ!” he shrieked, reaching out his tiny, helpless hand.
