Chapter 3 - The Traitor's Mask
Marco walked into the center of the study, completely unaware of the child's silent accusation. He tapped the glass screen of his tablet, his expression furrowed with professional concern.
"Castellano’s underboss, Frankie Vane, called my private line three minutes ago," Marco said, his voice brimming with frustration. "He claims they had thirty men waiting at the hangar in Chicago. He’s threatening to shut down our transport corridors along the Ohio border because we 'disrespected' them."
Lorenzo didn't blink. "And what did you tell Frankie?"
"I told him our jet had an emergency maintenance delay," Marco replied quickly. "I didn't tell him about the bomb. If word gets out that someone took a shot at you and almost succeeded, every small-time crew from Queens to Philadelphia will start testing our borders."
"Very smart," Lorenzo murmured, his voice silky and dangerous. "Always thinking ahead, Marco."
Clara stood frozen against the bookshelf, her fingers digging into the spine of an encyclopedia. She knew. She had heard Mia’s whisper. Her breath was shallow, her eyes darting between Marco’s polished shoes and the door.
Marco noticed her gaze and gave her an irritated look. "Clara, shouldn't you take your kid down to the kitchen? The boss has work to do."
"No," Lorenzo intervened smoothly. "Mia is tired. Let her rest here. Clara, pour Marco a glass of Scotch from the bar."
Clara jumped, startled. "Yes, Mr. Moretti."
Her hands were shaking so hard the crystal decanter rattled against the rim of the glass. She filled it with amber liquid and brought it over, keeping her eyes cast toward the floor. Marco took it without saying thank you, knocking back half the glass in a single swallow.
"We need to strike first, Lorenzo," Marco urged, stepping closer to the desk. "The Castellanos are the only ones with the military-grade C4 required to bypass private aviation sweeps. I know an explosives broker in Jersey who deals with their people. Let me take six men tonight. We take out their warehouse in Newark. Send a message."
Lorenzo walked behind his massive desk and sat down in the high-backed leather chair. He folded his hands atop the polished mahogany.
"An explosives broker in Jersey," Lorenzo mused aloud. "You think it was C4?"
"What else could blow an engine mount off a Gulfstream?" Marco laughed nervously. "It had to be plastic explosive."
"Funny," Lorenzo said, leaning back. "The runway forensics haven't even issued a preliminary report. Dante spoke to the state fire marshal five minutes ago. They haven't even identified the chemical residue yet."
Marco’s throat bobbed. A faint bead of sweat formed at his hairline.
"Well... it’s an educated guess, boss. You know the kind of hardware those bastards use."
"Of course," Lorenzo said. "An educated guess."
Lorenzo leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Tell me, Marco. Where were you last night around ten o'clock?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Marco lowered the glass of Scotch. His casual stance stiffened, just enough for Lorenzo’s trained eyes to catch the tightening of his shoulder muscles.
"Last night?" Marco frowned. "I was in the east security hut until midnight. Reviewing the shift rotations for the Chicago trip."
"Alone?"
"Yes. You know I like to review the rosters by myself." Marco took half a step backward, his hand dropping casually toward his hip. "Why are you asking me this, Lorenzo?"
"Because," Lorenzo said softly, "Mia says she heard voices in the cellar last night."
Marco let out a loud, theatrical chuckle. "The cellar? Lorenzo, with all due respect, are you really running an investigation based on the babbling of a frightened toddler? The girl probably heard the pipes banging. The heating system down there is fifty years old."
"She said there was a box with a green light," Lorenzo continued, his voice calm, chillingly level. "She said someone mentioned thirty thousand feet. And she said the man had a silver watch."
Marco froze.
His left wrist, resting against his thigh, was suddenly as heavy as lead. The platinum mesh band of his Patek Philippe gleamed under the study's recessed lights.
For three seconds, neither man breathed.
Outside the window, a hawk shrieked over the autumn trees. In the corner of the room, Clara pulled Mia into her lap, burying the child's head into her collarbone to shield her from what was coming.
Marco’s eyes darted toward the study door.
Two armed guards—loyal Moretti soldiers—stood outside in the hall. Marco was trapped on the third floor of a fortress.
"Lorenzo," Marco said, his voice losing its deferential tone, dropping into something harsh and desperate. "You've been don for twelve years. You're soft. You spend half your time turning dirty money into real estate and charity hospitals, while the Castellanos are taking our docks, our unions, our pride! You wouldn't go to war. So the council decided we needed a don who would."
"The council?" Lorenzo asked softly. "Who on the council?"
"You think I’m going to tell you?" Marco sneered.
In a flash of motion, Marco reached inside his jacket for his concealed sidearm.
He was fast. But Lorenzo had survived nineteen years in the bloodiest corners of the underworld.
Lorenzo didn't draw a gun. He grabbed the heavy brass carriage clock from his desk and hurled it with terrifying velocity.
The three-pound brass clock struck Marco directly across the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch. Marco staggered back, his gun clearing his holster just as his vision blurred with blood. He fired blindly into the ceiling, blowing a hole through the ornate plaster.
*BANG!*
Clara screamed, covering Mia with her entire body.
Before Marco could level the barrel, Lorenzo vaulted over the heavy mahogany desk. He closed the distance in a single stride, slamming his palm into Marco’s wrist to divert the weapon, then driving his elbow viciously into Marco’s shattered nose.
Marco crashed backward against the bookshelf, books tumbling down around him. His gun clattered across the hardwood floor, spinning until it came to rest against Clara’s foot.
Lorenzo pinned Marco against the shelves with a forearm across his throat, his face inches from the traitor’s. Lorenzo’s eyes were black with fury.
"Who supplied the detonator?" Lorenzo snarled, pressing his forearm deeper, cutting off the man's airway. "Give me the name, Marco, and I let you die quickly."
Marco choked, spitting blood across Lorenzo’s white shirt. A twisted smile broke through his broken lips. "It's... already... started, Lorenzo. You think I’m the only one inside the gates? Look... out... the window."
Lorenzo’s gut wrenched.
From the front grounds of the estate, down near the main gatehouse, the sharp, rhythmic chatter of automatic gunfire erupted.
*RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!*
A secondary explosion rocked the estate, rattling the heavy glass panes of the study windows. Black smoke began to billow from the security gatehouse.
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Marco wheezed out a laugh through the blood filling his mouth. "The hit wasn't just the plane... you were supposed to die in the air... but if you stayed home... they come to the house."
***
