Chapter 4 - The Neutral Ground
Thursday night arrived under a blanket of heavy, black rain that swept across Lake Maggiore.
The neutral meeting ground was an ancient, abandoned stone villa situated on a private peninsula near Stresa. Surrounded by dark pine forests and crashing lake waters, it had served as a venue for high-stakes syndicate disputes for over fifty years.
At eight o'clock precisely, three black armored SUVs pulled up the gravel driveway.
Lorenzo stepped out into the pouring rain, adjusted the collar of his charcoal wool coat, and walked toward the grand entrance of the ruined villa. Marco walked half a step behind him, accompanied by six of the Duca family’s most trusted, elite tactical guards.
Inside the grand ballroom, where faded frescoes peeled from the high ceilings, Vincenzo Moretti sat at a long wooden table.
Vincenzo was fifty, broad-shouldered, with a pockmarked face and cold, greasy eyes that oozed arrogance. Sitting on either side of him were a dozen heavily armed bodyguards, their hands resting noticeably inside their leather jackets.
"Lorenzo," Vincenzo called out, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls as he raised a glass of amber whiskey. "You actually came. I thought you were too busy playing house up in Como."
Lorenzo didn't smile. He walked up to the opposite side of the long wooden table, pulled out a heavy carved chair, and sat down smoothly. He rested his hands flat on the table, his demeanor so terrifyingly calm that several of Vincenzo’s men shifted uncomfortably on their feet.
"You asked for a sit-down, Vincenzo," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a smooth, icy register. "Speak."
Vincenzo laughed, setting his whiskey glass down with a heavy thud. "Let's not waste time with formal speeches, Duca. The northern shipping routes belong to Turin now. You're getting old. You're getting soft. Taking in Paolo’s widow and her bastard child? That isn't the work of a Don. That's the work of a retired man ready for a nursing home."
Marco’s hand twitched toward his holster, but Lorenzo held up a single, sharp finger, signaling his chief of security to stay motionless.
"You tracked an innocent woman and a three-year-old child through my territory," Lorenzo stated, his eyes narrowing into two piercing slivers of dark steel. "You intended to use them to breach my estate."
"I intended to use whatever tool got me into your vault, Lorenzo!" Vincenzo sneered, leaning across the table, his face contorting with arrogant spite. "And guess what? It worked. You're here. In my sight. Away from your big fortress."
Vincenzo snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the twelve Moretti bodyguards pulled high-caliber handguns from their jackets, aiming them directly at Lorenzo and his men.
Marco and the Duca guards drew their weapons instantly, creating a tense, lethal standoff in the center of the dark ballroom. The click of twenty safety catches echoing off the stone walls sounded like snapping bone.
Vincenzo smirked, thinking he held total control. "You walk away from Como tonight, Lorenzo. You hand over the Genoa shipping keys, or none of your men leave this peninsula alive."
Lorenzo didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look at the six gun barrels pointed directly at his chest.
Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his antique silver pocket watch, popped open the cover, and looked at the dial.
"It is eight-fifteen, Vincenzo," Lorenzo said smoothly.
Vincenzo frowned, confused by the reaction. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"At eight-ten," Lorenzo explained calmly, "my secondary tactical team breached your private compound in Turin. At eight-twelve, your entire financial server network was seized by my cyber security team. And at eight-fourteen, your three primary lieutenants in Genoa surrendered their weapons."
Vincenzo’s face went completely pale. "You're bluffing—"
Vincenzo’s cell phone on the table began vibrating furiously.
With a trembling hand, the Moretti boss picked it up, pressing it to his ear. The voice screaming through the speaker was so loud it could be heard across the quiet ballroom: “Boss! The Duca family took the docks! They seized the warehouses! It’s over! They took everything!”
The phone slipped from Vincenzo’s fingers, clattering onto the wooden table.
Lorenzo slowly closed the cover of his silver pocket watch with a sharp click. He stood up, towering over the broken, terrified man across the table.
"I didn't come here to negotiate with you, Vincenzo," Lorenzo whispered, leaning down until his dark eyes were inches from Vincenzo’s trembling face. "I came here to show you what happens when you threaten my family."
Lorenzo gestured to Marco. "Disarm them."
Within thirty seconds, the outnumbered Moretti guards, realizing their boss had lost everything in a single move, dropped their weapons to the stone floor.
Lorenzo turned his back on Vincenzo, walking toward the grand doors of the villa as his men secured the perimeter. He stopped at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder at the ruined boss sitting alone in the dark.
"You are exiled from Northern Italy, Vincenzo," Lorenzo commanded flatly. "If I ever see your face, or the face of any man who serves you, within fifty miles of Lake Como again... I won't send a tactical team. I will come myself."
Lorenzo stepped out into the pouring rain, climbing into the back seat of his black SUV.
As the heavy vehicle accelerated down the winding mountain road away from Stresa, Marco turned from the front passenger seat, looking at his boss with deep, unshakeable respect.
"The Moretti threat is completely liquidated, Don Duca," Marco reported. "Where to now?"
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Lorenzo looked out the tinted window at the dark waters of the lake glowing under the moonlight. For the first time in fifteen years, his chest didn't feel heavy with war. It felt light.
"Home, Marco," Lorenzo said softly. "Take me home."
