Chapter 7 - THE SOVEREIGN PENTHOUSE
At the Sovereign Hotel in Manhattan, the 40th floor penthouse suite was quiet.
Don Antonio Moretti stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, sipping a cup of espresso, watching the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline. He wore a plush velvet robe, feeling the supreme confidence of a predator whose long-laid plan was about to yield total victory.
In thirty minutes, Vicenzo would call to confirm Elena was secured.
In forty minutes, Matteo Rinaldi would be dead in his bed.
And by noon, the entire Rinaldi empire would bow to the Moretti name once again.
CLICK.
The heavy double doors of the penthouse suite unlocked softly behind him.
Moretti didn't turn around immediately, assuming it was his primary bodyguard bringing the morning briefing. “Did the Marseilles team secure the girl?”
“The Marseilles team is currently lying on the I-95 corridor in zip-ties, Antonio,” a smooth, deep voice answered from the doorway.
Moretti froze instantly.
The espresso cup slipped from his fingers, shattering loudly on the marble floor.
He turned around slowly, his face turning completely grey under his silicone prosthetic.
Standing in the center of the living room was Matteo Rinaldi.
Matteo wore a tailor-made suit, his coat unbuttoned, his hands resting casually in his pockets. Behind him stood six elite Rinaldi enforcers, all holding suppressed weapons trained on Moretti’s two personal bodyguards, who were already pinned against the wall on their knees, stripped of their firearms.
“Matteo...” Moretti stammered, his voice losing all its smooth arrogance. “How... how did you—”
“You made three fatal mistakes, Antonio,” Matteo said, stepping slowly across the room, his leather shoes crunching over the broken porcelain of the coffee cup.
Moretti backed up until his spine hit the glass window. “Listen to me, Matteo! We can make a deal! The New Jersey terminals—I’ll hand the shares back to you! Fifty million in offshore bonds!”
“Mistake number one,” Matteo continued, ignoring him entirely, taking another step forward. “You believed Don Vicenzo was smart enough to outwit my wife.”
Moretti swallowed hard, sweat running down his scarred neck.
“Mistake number two,” Matteo said, stopping three feet away, his dark eyes locking onto Moretti’s terrified face. “You believed that three years of silence meant my wife hated me.”
Moretti’s breathing turned fast and shallow. “She did hate you! She stayed away from you! She refused to touch you!”
“She stayed away from me because you put a gun to my head, Antonio,” Matteo growled softly, a lethal edge cutting through his tone. “She carried your threat alone for three years to keep me breathing.”
Moretti realized the depth of his miscalculation. Panic seized him. He reached frantically toward the drawer of the side console where a hidden revolver lay.
Before his hand could touch the wood, Matteo moved with terrifying speed.
He grabbed Moretti’s wrist, twisting it sharply until the joint cracked loudly, slamming Moretti’s face hard against the marble console table.
Moretti screamed in pain, pinned under Matteo’s heavy forearm.
Matteo leaned down, his voice a freezing whisper against Moretti’s ear.
“And mistake number three, Antonio,” Matteo whispered. “You stepped foot in my city.”
Matteo pulled his silver-plated Kimber .45 from his holster, pressed the suppressor directly against the back of Moretti’s leg, and squeezed the trigger twice.
PFT! PFT!
Moretti shrieked in agony as his kneecaps were shattered, collapsing limply onto the floor as Matteo let him go.
“You’re not dying today, Antonio,” Matteo said, standing over the groaning, bleeding man. “Dying is far too easy for what you made my wife suffer.”
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Matteo looked over his shoulder at Marco. “Take him to the basement facility in Queens. Strip his assets, take his accounts, and make sure he spends the rest of his life in a dark cell reflecting on his mistakes.”
“With pleasure, Boss,” Marco answered, motioning for the guards to drag Moretti away.
