Chapter 6 - Bloodlines and Betrayal
Roman slowly raised his hands, stepping away from the mahogany table. The luxury cabin of the Gulfstream seemed to shrink, compressing all four years of lies into the tight, suffocating space between us.
Outside, the muted sounds of gunfire and shouting echoed across the wet tarmac, but inside the jet, there was only the steady hum of the auxiliary power unit and the sound of our breathing.
"Adrian, listen to me," Roman stammered, taking a cautious half-step back toward the rear galley. "You don't understand what happened. You don't know what Father was planning—"
"Father is dead, Roman!" I shouted, the fury I had suppressed for four years finally detonating in my chest. "He died three years ago! Poisoned by the woman you slept with while you were hiding like a rat!"
Roman flinched, his jaw twitching. "Vanessa told you?"
"Clara Bennett told me," I corrected him, moving closer until the barrel of my gun was three feet from his chest. "The maid whose life you tried to destroy because she saw you stealing from our family's vault. You framed an innocent woman, Roman! You tried to throw her to the wolves to cover your pathetic tracks!"
"She was a servant, Adrian!" Roman yelled back, his old, arrogant temperament flaring up. "She was a nobody! I am a Moretti! I had to protect myself!"
"You're not a Moretti," I said, my voice dropping into a deadly whisper. "A Moretti protects his family. A Moretti doesn't fake his death, abandon his brother to carry the weight of an empire alone, and then sell our father's legacy to the Russians!"
I gestured with my gun toward the black ledger sitting on the table beside his silver briefcase.
"You were going to hand Viktor Sokolov the keys to Chicago," I said. "Every bribe, every political connection, every safe house. You were going to let the Russians wipe us out so you could live like a king in Dubai."
Roman looked at the gun, then looked into my eyes. He saw no mercy there. He saw only the cold, unyielding judgment of the man who had sacrificed his entire youth to keep our family alive.
Suddenly, Roman’s posture changed. The fear slipped from his face, replaced by a dark, ugly sneer—the same bitter expression he used to wear when our father favored me over him.
"You always were the good little soldier, weren't you, Adrian?" Roman spat, leaning against the leather seat. "Dutiful Adrian. Ruthless Adrian. Father's favorite bloodhound. You spent your whole life bleeding for a business that treats people like meat. I wanted out! I deserved that money!"
"You could have asked me!" I roared. "If you wanted to leave, if you wanted money, I would have given you millions and let you walk away! You were my brother, Roman! I mourned you for four years! I cried over your empty grave!"
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
Roman laughed—a hollow, mocking sound. "You cried for a memory, Adrian. You didn't cry for me. You loved the idea of a little brother you could protect and control. But I was never your lapdog."
He slowly reached toward his coat pocket.
"Don't do it, Roman," I warned, tightening my finger on the trigger.
"Or what?" Roman sneered, his hand slipping inside his jacket. "You're going to shoot your own blood? You're going to go back to Chicago with my blood on your hands? You don't have it in you, brother. You're too loyal to the rules."
Before he could pull whatever was in his coat, a heavy voice boomed from the front doorway of the jet.
"He might not have it in him, Roman... but I certainly do."
We both turned sharply.
Standing in the entrance of the cabin was Viktor Sokolov.
The Russian Syndicate boss was a massive man in his late fifties, with a shaved head, a thick gray beard, and eyes as cold as Siberian ice. He was drenched in rain, holding a heavy, silver-plated Magnum revolver. Behind him stood two massive Russian enforcers with automatic weapons.
Outside, the gunfire had stopped. Marco and my men had been pinned down or captured.
"Viktor!" Roman gasped, relief washing over his face. "Thank God! Take care of him! He brought the whole security crew—"
"Shut up, Roman," Sokolov said coldly, stepping into the aisle.
Roman froze. "What?"
Sokolov didn't even look at Roman. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on me.
"Adrian Moretti," Sokolov said, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of grim respect. "I must admit, your security team fought like wolves. It took eight of my best men to pin them against the hangar wall."
"Let them go, Sokolov," I said calmly, keeping my body angled between Sokolov and my brother. "This is a family matter."
"Family matter?" Sokolov laughed loudly, his booming voice echoing in the cabin. "Your brother offered me your entire empire for fifty million dollars, Adrian. He gave me the ledger. He gave me the access codes. He sold you out like a dog in the street."
Sokolov looked at Roman with profound disgust.
"In my culture," Sokolov continued, raising his heavy revolver, "a man who betrays his own blood cannot be trusted to honor any contract. If he sells his brother today, he will sell me to the FBI tomorrow."
Roman’s face turned completely white. "Viktor... wait! We had a deal—"
May you like
"The deal is canceled," Sokolov said.
And before I could react, Sokolov brought his heavy revolver up and pulled the trigger.
