Chapter 9
The silence on the stone patio was absolute. The bright, cinematic sunlight continued to shine, utterly indifferent to the dark, treasonous confession that had just been unspooled. Orson Bellori looked down at his older cousin, a woman he had allowed into his home, a woman who had broken bread at his table, who had just confessed to facilitating the murder of his three-year-old child for a taste of power.
"When is the hit scheduled?" Orson asked, his raspy voice devoid of all human emotion.
"Tonight," Tamsin whimpered, her body shaking violently against the cold stone. "During the anniversary dinner. They are sending a strike team to the main gates. They told me to cause a distraction inside the house to draw the bodyguards away from the perimeter. That’s why I took the inhaler! I was trying to create chaos!"
Orson’s sharply defined jawline tightened. The pieces of the puzzle locked together with terrifying clarity. Her unprovoked cruelty hadn't just been jealousy; it was a tactical maneuver designed to drop his defenses.
"You sold my daughter's life to buy a crown," Orson whispered.
"I was desperate!" Tamsin cried, reaching out to grasp the hem of his tailored trousers. "Orson, I gave you the information! I told you everything! You promised you would make it quick! You gave me your word!"
Orson looked down at her grasping hands. He did not kick her away. He simply stared at her with eyes that belonged to a ghost.
"I always keep my word," Orson said softly.
He reached beneath the jacket of his three-piece suit. In one fluid, practiced motion, he drew a suppressed, heavy-caliber pistol from his shoulder holster. The matte black metal absorbed the bright sunlight.
Tamsin gasped, throwing her hands over her face. "Orson, please—"
Pfft.
The suppressed gunshot was barely a whisper against the vast expanse of the estate gardens. Tamsin collapsed backward onto the stone patio, entirely motionless.
Orson did not blink. He smoothly holstered the weapon, adjusting his suit jacket so it sat perfectly against his chest. He looked at the two bodyguards standing in the shadows of the garden walls.
"Clean this up," Orson commanded quietly. "And inform the armory. We are going to war."
"Yes, Boss," the guards responded immediately, stepping forward to handle the body.
Orson turned his back on the patio and walked back through the heavy glass doors. He navigated the quiet, brilliantly lit corridors of his home, his mind calculating the impending assault. The Moretti family was coming. They expected a distracted, chaotic household. They expected an easy slaughter.
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They had absolutely no idea what was waiting for them.
Orson pushed open the heavy mahogany doors and stepped back into the grand dining hall. The room was exactly as he had left it—dead silent, terrified, and waiting for his command.
