Chapter 10
The Valenti estate transformed from a luxurious wedding venue into an armed fortress in less than sixty seconds.
The bright, cinematic colors of the afternoon felt harsh and unforgiving as dozens of heavily armed capos flooded the manicured lawns. The white American bodyguards moved with military precision, their dark suits contrasting violently with the tactical gear they hastily strapped over their dress shirts.
Domenico walked out the front doors of the mansion. He did not put on a bulletproof vest. He did not draw a weapon. He walked with his hands empty, his tailored three-piece suit immaculate, his heavy signet ring gleaming in the sun. He projected an aura of absolute, terrifying invincibility.
"They are falling back to the tree line, Boss!" a lieutenant shouted over the radio, crouching behind a marble fountain. "We count at least twenty armed men moving through the woods! It's an organized hit squad!"
"They are not a hit squad," Domenico said calmly, his American accent smooth and cold. "They are a distraction. They want us to chase them into the woods."
"Then what are our orders?" the lieutenant asked, his finger hovering over the trigger of his rifle.
"Hold the perimeter. Do not engage unless they push the tree line," Domenico commanded. He turned his head, looking back at the massive stone facade of his mansion. His eyes drifted up to the third-floor window, staring at the spider-web fracture in the ballistic glass.
The entire elaborate plot—the blackmail, the antique vase, the delayed wedding, the sniper shot—was entirely too complex for a simple assassination. Someone who wanted him dead would have just shot him in the driveway. This was psychological warfare. This was someone trying to prove that Domenico’s impenetrable fortress was completely compromised.
And the only people who knew the interior layout of the estate well enough to coordinate the movement of the guests, the location of the antique vase, and the sightlines of the third-floor windows were members of his own inner circle.
Domenico reached into his pocket and pulled out his secure smartphone. He dialed the extension for the private study where Marco and Camilla were being held.
The phone rang endlessly. No one answered.
"Luigi," Domenico said, turning to a bodyguard standing near the entrance. "Go to the study. Check on my cousin."
The bodyguard nodded, sprinting back inside the mansion.
Domenico stood on the lawn, the natural cinematic light beginning to fade as the afternoon wore on. He looked at the tree line, knowing the armed men were waiting for him to make a mistake. He looked at the shattered seating chart inside the ballroom. He looked at the world he had built, realizing that the foundations were rotting from the inside out.
"Boss!" Luigi’s voice suddenly screamed over the radio, frantic and breathless. "Boss, you need to get to the study right now!"
"Are they dead?" Domenico asked, his voice dead calm.
"No, Boss," Luigi replied, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated terror. "They aren't dead. But the guards on the door are. Their throats are cut. And Marco and Camilla... they are gone. There’s a hole blown through the floor into the old smuggling tunnels."
Domenico Valenti closed his eyes. The trap hadn't been sprung yet. The true war was only just beginning.
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He slowly opened his eyes, staring into the dark, yawning shadows of his own estate.
"Bring me my rifle," Domenico whispered.
