Chapter 8 - The Strike at Genoa
Peace in the mafia world never lasted long.
On a Tuesday night, four weeks after Elena had vanished from the bridal suite, a massive explosion rocked the Bellini shipping terminal at Pier 14 in Genoa.
Three cargo containers filled with high-grade industrial equipment were destroyed, and two of Matteo’s senior lieutenants were critically injured in an ambush executed by Moretti loyalists.
The war had officially crossed from economic posturing into open bloodshed.
In the private war room at Villa Bellini, Matteo stood before a massive illuminated map of the Italian coast, surrounded by his top military commanders.
"Sergio Moretti is getting desperate," Marco reported, pointing a wooden indicator at the Genoa docks. "He lost forty percent of his revenue when you cut the shipping rights. His younger men are pressing him to hit back hard before his alliance collapses entirely."
"Where is Sergio staying?" Matteo asked, his voice dark, calm, and lethal.
"At his private estate near Lake Como," Marco replied. "He has thirty armed guards on the perimeter."
Gianna stepped into the room, holding an encrypted satellite tablet.
"Matteo," she said urgently. "Moretti’s men intercepted an encrypted communication from Amalfi. They know Elena is staying at the cliffside villa."
Matteo’s entire body went rigid.
The calm, patient demeanor he had maintained for four weeks vanished instantly, replaced by the terrifying, bloodthirsty rage of the syndicate boss who had earned his throne in blood.
"Get the helicopter ready," Matteo ordered, his voice dropping into a register that made every man in the room shudder. "We are going to Amalfi. Now."
At the cliffside villa, the rain had just begun to fall.
Elena was inside her second-floor studio, carefully applying protective varnish to an eighteenth-century oil painting, when the villa's power suddenly cut out, plunging the house into complete darkness.
The quiet hum of the air conditioning died away, replaced by the sharp, rhythmic sound of rain against the glass doors.
Below on the driveway, a loud, muffled pop echoed through the night.
Then a second.
Elena dropped her brush, her heart instantly slamming against her ribs. She recognized those sounds—silenced gunshots.
She backed away from the easel, grabbing a heavy brass candlestick from the mantelpiece.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the marble staircase.
The double doors of the studio were kicked open, splintering against the frame.
Two men in black tactical gear and raincoats burst into the room, their weapons raised, their flashlights blinding her in the dark.
"Elena Brooks," the lead man sneered, his voice carrying a harsh northern accent. "Don Sergio sends his regards. You're coming with us to Como."
Elena didn't scream. She didn't faint.
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Instead, she drew upon the raw, fierce strength she had discovered within herself over the last month.
As the lead man stepped forward to grab her arm, Elena swung the heavy brass candlestick with all her strength, striking him hard across the side of his jaw.
