Chapter 14
The strike leader stared at Orson, the horrific realization settling over him. They had been sent into a meat grinder, orchestrated by a man who had anticipated their every move.
"What do you want?" the strike leader choked out. "We surrender."
"I do not accept surrenders from men who come to murder my child," Orson said, his cold, intimidating eyes narrowing into dark slits.
He didn't raise his voice. He simply nodded to Marcus.
The deafening, synchronized cracks of suppressed gunfire echoed once more through the courtyard as the remaining Moretti soldiers were swiftly and ruthlessly executed. Orson didn't blink as the strike leader fell dead at his feet. He had drawn a line in blood; the sanctity of his home was absolute.
"Sanitize the courtyard," Orson ordered, turning his back on the carnage. "Load the bodies into their vans. Drive them to the Moretti processing plant on the south side. Leave the vehicles parked at the loading docks."
"Sending a message, Boss?" Marcus asked, wiping a smudge of gunpowder from his face.
"I am sending an obituary," Orson corrected softly.
He walked back into the grand foyer, stripping off the heavy Kevlar vest. The adrenaline of the firefight receded, replaced by a cold, calculating focus. The defensive battle was won, but the war required an offensive decapitation strike. Don Moretti had ordered the hit; Don Moretti had to die.
"Assemble the elite tactical squad," Orson commanded as he walked toward his private study. "We are going to pay a visit to the Moretti compound. Tonight."
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"They will be heavily fortified, Orson," an older capo warned, stepping out from the shadows. "When their strike team doesn't check in, Moretti will lock down his estate."
"Let him lock down," Orson murmured, a dark, terrifying smile touching the corners of his mouth. "A locked door only matters if you intend to use the handle. We are going through the roof."
