Chapter 8
The name Vincenzo Hale resonated through the bunker like the cocking of an assault rifle.
Vincenzo was the seventy-year-old patriarch of the Hale syndicate, Damian and Vivienne’s father—a ruthless, old-school boss who controlled the Midwest logistics corridors. If Vincenzo was moving forty soldiers across state lines into New York, it was not a covert extraction; it was an open, full-scale invasion designed to annex the Moretti empire while Cassandro was presumed to be mourning his missing wife.
Cassandro did not flinch. His expression remained an unreadable mask of dark, chiseled stone. He reached out and gently pressed a cup of warm water with a straw to Natalie’s lips, helping her take two small sips.
"Breathe, Natalie," Cassandro murmured, his voice slow and soothing. "You don't need to fight anymore. I will handle the Hales."
He turned to Dr. Mercer. "Prep an armored ambulance. Transport Natalie and Audrey to the private medical wing at my estate in the Hamptons. Put twenty men on the perimeter. Frank, you command the convoy."
"On my life, Don Cassandro," Frank said, stepping forward to gently lift the exhausted child.
Cassandro kissed Natalie’s temple, lingering for a long, quiet second against her skin. "Rest, my love. When you wake up again, the sun will be shining on your gardens, and every man who put hands on you will be in the earth."
Natalie gripped his hand weakly, her eyes filled with desperate, fierce warning. "Cassandro... Vincenzo has the harbor codes. Damian gave them to him three days ago. If they take the south docks, you lose the shipping routes."
"Nobody takes my docks, Natalie," Cassandro whispered. "Nobody."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, leaving the medical staff to their work.
He walked down the concrete corridor to the first storage cell, where Vivienne sat huddled in the corner, clutching her knees, her fair face smeared with tears and mascara.
Cassandro stepped inside. He did not sit. He stood over her, his imposing shadow blotting out the single overhead bulb.
"Stand up, Vivienne," Cassandro said softly.
Vivienne looked up, trembling so violently her teeth clicked together. "Cassandro... please. I was his daughter! Vincenzo told me if I didn't marry you, he would have Damian executed! I had no choice!"
"You had a choice every single morning for seven hundred days," Cassandro replied, his baritone steady as an iron bar. "When you kissed my daughter's forehead, you had a choice. When you wore my family's diamonds, you had a choice. You chose to let a mother rot in a concrete cellar while you slept in her bed."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold signet ring he had taken from his father fifteen years ago—the heavy, engraved crest of the Moretti sovereigns.
"Your father lands at Newark at eight o'clock tonight, Vivienne," Cassandro said, each word spaced with surgical precision. "You are going to call him. You will tell him that the transfer cleared. You will tell him that Natalie is dead, that the biometric files are secured, and that the gates to my south docks are completely unguarded."
May you like
Vivienne’s breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror. "You... you want me to lure my own father into an ambush?"
"I don't want you to do anything, Vivienne," Cassandro murmured, leaning down until his eyes were inches from hers. "You will do it because if you refuse, Marco will bring your brother into this room with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. Choose."
