Chapter 6 - The Trap Springs
Viktor Vance froze mid-motion.
He spun around on his heel, his hand instinctively dropping toward the combat knife strapped to his thigh.
Standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit, was Alejandro Moretti.
He wasn't wearing his tailored suits or his heavy overcoat. He wore a simple black turtleneck and dark tactical trousers, his shoulders broad and menacing in the dim moonlight filtering through the bedroom window. In his right hand, he held a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol, the barrel pointed with absolute, unwavering precision directly at Viktor’s chest.
Behind Alejandro, two heavily armed enforcers stood in the hallway, cutting off any possibility of retreat.
“Viktor Vance,” Alejandro said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he stepped into the room, keeping me safely behind his shoulder while I stirred sleepily in my bed. “The cleaner from Palermo. I wondered when Don Salvatore would send his favorite dog to do a man’s job.”
Viktor’s mind raced. He assessed the angles, the distance, the positioning. But against a combat-trained syndicate boss backed by elite guards in a confined hallway, the math didn't add up. He slowly raised his hands away from his weapons.
“Moretti,” Viktor muttered, his voice raspy and controlled. “I have to hand it to you. You’re harder to kill than a cockroach.”
“And you,” Alejandro replied, his eyes narrowing to cold slits, “are remarkably stupid for thinking you could break into my estate and touch a hair on this child’s head.”
“She’s just a brat,” Viktor sneered, trying to goad Alejandro into a loss of composure. “A little maid’s kid. Why do you care so much about a nobody?”
The second those words left Viktor’s mouth, the air in the room turned to ice.
Alejandro didn't yell. He didn't hesitate. He raised his pistol slightly and squeezed the trigger—thip—a muffled, pneumatic pop.
A bullet tore through the fabric of Viktor’s right shoulder, missing bone by a fraction of an inch but shattering his muscle fibers and sending him crashing backward onto the floor with a hoarse cry of agony.
“She is not a nobody,” Alejandro growled, stepping forward and pressing the cold steel barrel of his pistol directly between Viktor’s eyes. “She is everything. And you are going to tell me every single name, every single drop point, and every single order Don Salvatore gave you before I decide whether to bury you in the garden or feed you to the pigs.”
Rocco and the guards rushed into the room, grabbing Viktor by the arms and hauling him roughly to his feet.
As they dragged the bleeding assassin out into the hallway, Viktor spat a mouthful of blood onto the floorboards, laughing hysterically.
“You think killing me stops it, Moretti? The syndicate doesn't care about one failed hit! They’re coming for all of you—the girl, her mother, your entire empire!”
Alejandro watched him leave without batting an eye.
He holstered his pistol, turned around, and walked back over to my bed. I rubbed my eyes sleepily, sitting up and looking at him through the dim light.
“Mr. Moretti?” I whispered, my voice thick with sleep. “Are there monsters outside?”
May you like
Alejandro sat down gently on the edge of the mattress, his rough, scarred hand smoothing my tangled hair back from my forehead.
“No monsters, Emma,” he said softly, a warmth in his eyes that no one outside this room would ever believe the feared mafia boss possessed. “Go back to sleep. Uncle Alejandro is here. Nothing will ever hurt you again.”
