Chapter 22
"Ravelli," Silvio’s voice crackled over the encrypted line, thick with apprehension. "You let me live. I owe you a debt. I’m calling to pay it."
Lorenzo’s dark eyes narrowed, his handsome, bearded face setting into a mask of pure, sociopathic detachment. "I don't collect debts from ghosts, Silvio. What do you have?"
"The Moretti syndicate is dead, but Don Moretti had silent partners," Silvio explained, his words rushed. "International players. A European coalition that funded his shipping routes. They aren't happy about the sudden loss of their investment, and they blame you for the federal raids."
"Let them," Lorenzo replied smoothly, adjusting his tailored suit cuffs. "My borders are secure."
"You don't understand, Lorenzo," Silvio warned. "They aren't sending lawyers or accountants. They are sending 'The Architects.' It's an elite, decentralized mercenary group. They specialize in destabilizing syndicates from the inside. They are already in the city."
Lorenzo’s expression hardened. The threat was credible. He had expected retaliation, but a specialized mercenary unit required a tactical, aggressive response.
"Why are you telling me this, Silvio?" Lorenzo asked, measuring the pauses between his words.
"Because The Architects don't leave witnesses, and they consider anyone formerly associated with Moretti to be a liability," Silvio admitted, fear bleeding into his voice. "I want out. I want passage to South America. If you guarantee my safety, I'll give you their staging location."
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Lorenzo processed the information with the lethal, calculating precision of a veteran Boss. "Give me the location. If the intel is accurate, a private jet will be waiting for you at the secondary airfield by midnight."
Silvio relayed an address in the derelict warehouse district on the edge of the city. Lorenzo hung up the phone, a cold, dark fire igniting in his chest. The war wasn't over; it had simply evolved.
