Chapter 8
The Moretti underboss groaned, clutching his bleeding shoulder as he looked up at the towering figure of Leander Greystone. The cinematic lighting of the burning SUVs cast flickering, violent shadows across Leander’s handsome, angular face. The artistic tattoos on his right hand gripped the weapon with absolute, terrifying stability, while his broken left arm remained secured in its sling.
"He said you were weak," the underboss gasped, coughing heavily as smoke billowed around them. "He said you were crippled. That the family was fracturing from the inside."
"Is a fractured bone a measure of a man's strength, or is it merely a temporary inconvenience?" Leander asked softly, his deep voice carrying clearly over the crackling flames of the ruined vehicles.
The underboss had no answer. He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the final shot.
"Will you return to your boss and inform him that the Greystone syndicate is no longer accepting unsolicited visitors?" Leander asked, lowering the barrel of his gun just an inch.
The underboss opened his eyes in shock, realizing he was being spared as a messenger. He nodded frantically, his fair skin pale with terror. "Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him."
Leander lowered his weapon completely. He turned his broad shoulders, looking back toward the massive, brilliantly lit mansion. The gunfire had ceased entirely. His men were securing the perimeter, moving with the disciplined efficiency that made the Greystone family the most feared in the city. The ambush was a total, devastating victory.
"Are the casualties on our side confirmed?" Leander asked his lead enforcer as he walked back toward the main house, his leather shoes kicking aside a piece of twisted metal.
"Two wounded, Boss. None critical," the enforcer reported proudly. "We completely crushed them. The Morettis won't recover from this loss of manpower for years."
"Will you ensure the wounded are given the best medical care available, and double the hazard pay for every man who fought tonight?" Leander instructed, holstering his weapon with his uninjured hand.
"Yes, Boss. What about Oswald in the holding cells?" the enforcer asked, his tone darkening.
Leander paused on the driveway, his sharp jawline tightening. Oswald had orchestrated this massacre. He had shattered Leander's arm, sold the family secrets, and invited an invading army onto their property, all while trying to publicly humiliate him at his own reception.
"Do you believe a traitor deserves the comfort of a quick resolution, or should he sit in the dark and imagine what I am going to do to him for a few more days?" Leander asked softly, though the promise of violence in his voice was unmistakable.
"Let him rot, Boss," the enforcer smirked.
Leander nodded, ascending the marble steps of the portico. The adrenaline was finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a profound, aching exhaustion that radiated from his broken shoulder. He had defended his empire, secured his borders, and solidified his rule. But as he stepped through the heavy oak doors into the pristine grand foyer, his mind was entirely focused on the woman waiting in the dark.
He didn't stop to address the terrified staff who were slowly emerging from the secure areas. He walked with rapid, purposeful strides, his leather shoes clicking loudly on the marble floors. He bypassed the main staircase, heading directly for the heavy, reinforced steel door of the wine cellar bunker.
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He stopped in front of the door, taking a deep breath to steady the rapid beating of his heart.
"Althea. Will you open the door for me?" Leander asked, his deep voice thick with emotion, leaning his forehead against the cool steel.
