Chapter 16
The roof of the Moretti estate was surprisingly quiet. Don Moretti had concentrated his forces on the ground perimeter, expecting a traditional vehicular assault. He had vastly underestimated the tactical superiority of the Bellori syndicate.
"We are above the master suite," Marcus whispered over the secure comms, painting a large skylight with a laser designator.
"Set the shaped charges," Orson ordered, moving into position.
The operatives quickly attached specialized, low-yield explosive charges to the reinforced glass of the skylight. Orson raised his weapon, his breathing perfectly even. He was completely detached from the danger, operating entirely on cold, sociopathic calculation.
"Breach in three. Two. One."
The charges detonated with a sharp, concussive pop that shattered the reinforced glass inward. Orson didn't hesitate. He dropped through the opening, rappelling swiftly into the opulent master bedroom below.
The room was bathed in dim, yellow light. Don Moretti, a heavyset man in his late sixties, jolted awake in his massive, four-poster bed. The sudden explosion and the terrifying sight of heavily armed men dropping from his ceiling paralyzed him with sheer, unadulterated fear.
Before Moretti could even reach for the handgun resting on his nightstand, Orson was standing over him. The heavy barrel of the suppressed assault rifle was pressed directly against the older man's forehead.
"Orson," Moretti gasped, his fair, rosy skin turning the color of ash. He stared up at the demon in tactical gear, realizing his empire was falling. "How did you..."
"You sent men to my home, Moretti," Orson whispered, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that filled the quiet bedroom. "You tried to kill my child."
May you like
"It was business!" Moretti cried out, raising his hands in a pathetic, desperate gesture. "Tamsin promised us the ports! We thought you were weak!"
"You thought wrong," Orson stated coldly.
