Chapter 9 - The Betrayal at Warehouse Nine
The air in the warehouse instantly turned to ash.
Victor turned his head slowly toward his chief of security, his dark eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal fury.
"Rocco," Victor said softly. "What did you just say?"
Rocco smiled—a ugly, greedy sneer that revealed a row of yellowed teeth. "You went soft, Victor. Ever since your father died, you've been running this business like a charity. No hits, no drugs, no real muscle. The Commission in New York wants Philadelphia back on the heroin trade route, and you stood in the way."
Rocco shifted his grip on the submachine gun, his thumb hovering over the fire selector switch.
"So when your boys found Julian Moretti hiding out in the docks three weeks ago," Rocco continued, "I didn't kill him. I gave him the thermite. I fed him the locations of your warehouses. I needed a Moretti to burn your properties so the old bosses in New York would have an excuse to authorize a hit on you."
My heart stopped. Rocco hadn't just been hunting Julian—he had been manipulating him from the start, using my brother's grief to ignite a war that would wipe out both Victor and the last of the Moretti bloodline.
Julian’s eyes snapped with violent anger. "You traitorous bastard—"
"Don't move, kid!" Rocco barked, tightening his grip on the weapon. "One twitch and I dump thirty rounds into your chest, then I put a bullet in your little sister's head, and blame it all on a tragic shootout between rival families."
Victor took a half-step forward, placing his body partially in front of me. "You think my men on the perimeter are going to let you walk out of here, Rocco?"
"Your men on the perimeter were paid by New York three days ago, Victor," Rocco laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "They aren't your men anymore. They're mine."
As if on cue, the sound of heavy boots echoed from all four entrances of the warehouse. Six armed men in dark tactical gear stepped into the moonlight, their rifles leveled at Victor, Julian, and me.
We were completely surrounded. Trapped in the center of an empty, wet warehouse with seven guns pointed at our chests.
Victor didn't panic. He glanced sideways at me, his face calm, his posture completely relaxed despite the death sentence surrounding us.
"Tessa," Victor murmured softly, using my fake name so Rocco wouldn't notice the silent signal. "Is the lining ready?"
I instantly understood what he meant.
He wasn't asking about fabric. He was asking if I was ready to move.
"Always," I whispered back.
Victor reached into his trousers pocket—the same pocket where he kept his small, concealed secondary weapon, a titanium-framed compact pistol he always carried as a backup.
"Rocco," Victor said loudly, drawing every guard's attention to his face. "You forgot one fundamental rule my father taught me about Philadelphia."
Rocco raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What's that?"
"You never buy a man's loyalty," Victor growled, "when he knows you're going to kill him next."
Victor drew his compact pistol in a blinding, split-second blur of motion and fired three rapid shots directly into the steel light reflector mounting above Rocco's head.
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The massive heavy electrical fixture snapped from its chain cables and plummeted forty feet through the air, crashing down directly on top of Rocco and two of his guards in a shower of sparks, shattered metal, and screaming men.
"DOWN!" Victor roared, grabbing my arm and yanking me behind a massive steel drum as gunfire erupted across the warehouse like a thunderstorm.
