Chapter 9
The voice on the phone belonged to Marcus Moretti—Salvatore’s estranged older brother, who had been exiled to Europe twenty years ago after attempting to poison their father for the family throne.
"Marcus," Salvatore said, his tone utterly devoid of surprise, his volume low and chillingly steady. "I should have known an idiot like Ryan Hale couldn't find Zurich on a map without a guide."
"Ryan was a useful idiot, little brother," Marcus laughed, the sound cold and grating through the speaker. "He was so desperate to prove he was a real mobster that he swallowed every promise I fed him. All I needed was for him to put hands on Emily. I knew your pride, Salvatore. I knew you would burn down the Hales the second you saw a bruise on her skin."
Emily stepped back from the phone, her knuckles turning white as she clutched her coat.
"You used my daughter's suffering to provoke a war?" Salvatore murmured, every word separated by that terrifying, rhythmic pause.
"I used the war to clear the board!" Marcus snapped, his arrogance flaring through the line. "While you were parading Ryan before the Commission in Manhattan, my crews took the northern rail lines. We seized the deep-water docks in Boston. And right now, Ryan is driving a black Suburban through your outer perimeter with four of my best mercenaries."
The estate’s heavy perimeter alarms suddenly detonated through the twilight air.
A piercing, mechanical wail echoed across the stone courtyard, accompanied by the sweep of high-intensity halogen searchlights blazing to life along the compound’s ten-foot perimeter walls.
From the tree line three hundred yards away, the crackle of automatic gunfire shattered the quiet night.
"Franco!" Salvatore barked into his lapel radio.
"Breach at the south gate, Boss!" Franco’s gravelly voice crackled back over the static. "Heavy tactical gear! They used our internal override codes to drop the iron barriers! We’re engaging them at the tree line!"
Salvatore didn't hesitate. He took Emily by the arm, guiding her swiftly back inside the heavy French doors, locking the reinforced glass behind them.
"Go to the safe room beneath the wine cellar, Emily," Salvatore instructed, his voice firm, gentle, and unyielding. "Lock the steel vault from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me."
"Dad, don't go out there!" Emily pleaded, tears springing to her eyes as she grabbed his lapels. "They have assault rifles! Marcus wants you dead!"
Salvatore looked down at his daughter, his handsome, bearded face softening into a devastatingly calm smile. He reached out and gently cupped her cheek with his warm hand.
"This is my house, Emily," Salvatore whispered. "And no one enters my house without paying the toll. Go now."
Two armed guards appeared at the corridor entrance, flanking Emily and escorting her down the private elevator shaft toward the underground bunker.
Once the elevator doors closed, Salvatore turned back toward the grand foyer.
He didn't put on body armor. He didn't rush. He unbuttoned his suit cuffs, rolled his white sleeves back to his forearms, and walked over to the mahogany display case beneath the staircase. With a smooth, practiced click, he retrieved an antique customized Benelli twelve-gauge combat shotgun and two boxes of heavy slug rounds.
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He loaded four shells into the magazine with rhythmic, metallic clacks.
"Let us see," Salvatore murmured to the empty hallway, "what Marcus learned in twenty years."
