Chapter 7
"The perimeter is entirely locked down, Boss," Silas reported, pointing to a live satellite feed on a nearby monitor. "We cut the exterior lighting on the main driveway. We have snipers positioned on the east and west rooftops. Thirty heavily armed men are waiting in the shadows."
Alaric leaned over the table, resting his masculine hands on the blueprints. The loose strands of wavy hair fell across his forehead, giving him a dangerously calm appearance.
"While we were securing Bastian's private quarters," Silas continued, sliding a secure tablet across the desk. "We found a hidden safe behind a painting. It contained offshore routing numbers, encrypted communication logs, and physical cash. Boss... he wasn't acting alone."
Alaric tapped the tablet, scrolling through the decrypted logs. Bastian had been communicating with the Romanov syndicate—their largest and most violent rival operating out of New York. The transcripts detailed a horrific transaction. Bastian had agreed to hand over the logistical codes to the eastern shipping lanes to the Russians in exchange for their military backing to assassinate Alaric, removing the true power from the bloodline.
"He sold my life to the Russians," Alaric whispered. The volume of his voice was so low it barely registered above the ambient hum of the room, yet it carried the terrifying weight of an impending massacre.
"The Romanovs are mobilizing, Alaric," Silas confirmed, his face pale. "They expect the codes by tonight. When he doesn't deliver, they will know something went wrong. They will strike the city."
Alaric slowly handed the tablet back. He didn't explode into anger. The veteran Mafia boss retreated into a state of chilling, absolute tactical clarity.
"They believe my house is divided," Alaric said softly, standing up from the desk. "They believe I am blind to the treason that was occurring under my own roof."
"What are your orders, Boss?" Silas asked, drawing his weapon and checking the magazine.
"Lock down the city," Alaric commanded, his cold eyes reflecting the impending slaughter. "Arm every man on the payroll. We are taking the war to New York."
The room hummed with sudden, violent energy as the Capos began making calls on encrypted lines. The transition from a celebration to a military operation was seamless, a testament to the discipline Alaric had drilled into his organization over three decades.
"Boss," another Capo interrupted, holding a ringing secure phone out. "It's the Coletti compound. Bastian's underboss, Leo. He is demanding to speak with you."
Alaric took the phone. He didn't speak immediately, letting the silence stretch and amplify the tension.
"Montesi," Leo’s voice crackled through the speaker, thick with forced bravado. "Where is Bastian? He missed his check-in. If you touched him—"
"Bastian is currently indisposed," Alaric interrupted smoothly, his voice a low, lethal hum. "He is resting in my basement. He will not be returning your calls."
May you like
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. "You have declared war on the Coletti family, Alaric. You just signed your own death warrant."
"I have eradicated a parasite," Alaric corrected coldly. "And if you wish to share his fate, you will send your men to my gates tonight. I welcome the opportunity to clean house."
