Chapter 21
Interrogation
Aldo moved first, quick and silent. Before the guard could react, he had the man by the collar, slamming him against what remained of a crumbling stone wall. Dust and debris scattered from the impact, mixing with the sharp intake of the man’s breath. His hands flew up in a feeble attempt to fight back, but Matteo was already there, grabbing one of his wrists and twisting it behind his back until he let out a strangled cry of pain.
Russo, of course, took his time. He strolled over with an infuriating smirk, rolling his shoulders before cracking his knuckles. "Well, well, look at what we have here. A stray dog without a leash."
His voice was almost mocking, as if he was thoroughly enjoying this. He crouched slightly, studying the guard’s face like he was inspecting a piece of rotten fruit. "You’re going to tell us what we need to know. It’s just a matter of how much pain you want to go through first."
The guard gritted his teeth, his face contorted in pain. "You’re wasting your time," he spat. "You’re already dead."
Aldo pressed his forearm harder against the man’s throat, his voice calm, almost bored. "Where did Vittorio and Sofia go?"
The guard gave a weak, breathless chuckle. "Go to hell."
Aldo sighed as if this was an inconvenience more than anything else, then he stepped back. The guard barely had a moment to catch his breath before Russo swung his fist, landing a sharp punch to his gut. The air whooshed from the man’s lungs, and he coughed violently, knees buckling as he struggled to breathe.
Russo grinned, tilting his head. "Wrong answer. Let’s try again."
The next few minutes were filled with grunts, gasps, and the dull, sickening sound of fists meeting flesh. Russo enjoyed himself far too much, his blows calculated to inflict pain without knocking the man out. He toyed with the guard, delivering just enough force to make him writhe, then pausing to let the pain settle before starting again.
Matteo, standing to the side, arms crossed, forced himself to stay quiet. He hated this kind of violence, the unnecessary cruelty; but they didn’t have time to waste. Every second that passed put them further behind, and hesitation wasn’t an option.
The guard groaned, his head lolling forward as blood dripped from his split lip. His swollen eye barely opened as Aldo grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up. "Last chance," he said, voice dangerously low. "Where are they?"
The man coughed, spitting blood onto the dirt before he finally rasped out the words that changed everything.
"They’re going to America," he gasped, his breath hitching from the pain. "New York. There’s going to be a hostile takeover."
Matteo’s blood ran cold. His breath hitched, a deep dread settling in his chest. New York. Enzo. Luca. His family. His mind raced through the possibilities, each one worse than the last. Vittorio and Sofia weren’t just fleeing; they were making a move. A direct, calculated strike against the Morettis and De Lucas in their own stronghold.
His hands balled into fists as he took a shaky step back. Five days. It had been five days since this nightmare began, and he hadn’t called. Hadn’t warned them. Hadn’t done the one thing that could have made a difference.
Panic surged through him like ice, freezing him in place for a split second before instinct took over. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out Russo’s satisfied chuckle and Aldo’s sharp intake of breath. He reached for his phone, hands shaking slightly as he dialed the one number he should have called the moment this all started.
Matteo fumbled for his phone, fingers trembling slightly as he pressed the number he knew by heart. His pulse hammered against his ribs, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his shoulders. The ringing felt like it stretched on forever, each second feeding his rising panic. Then; "Enzo?"
"Matteo!?" Enzo’s voice was sharp, edged with worry and something dangerously close to anger. "Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you for three days! I was preparing to come to Italy tomorrow!"
Matteo swallowed hard, closing his eyes for a brief second. The guilt clawed at him. He should have called earlier. He should have warned him. But there was no time to dwell on mistakes now.
"Enzo," he breathed, forcing himself to stay calm, though the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. "Listen to me. You’re in danger."
Silence. A beat too long. Then Enzo’s voice, low and lethal. "Explain. Now."
Matteo exhaled, his grip tightening on the phone. "Vittorio is a traitor. He orchestrated a massacre. He killed everyone at the gathering except me, De Luca, and Russo. He’s coming to New York. He's planning a takeover."
The air on the other end of the line seemed to shift, growing heavier. Matteo could hear the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of orders being given, the faint echo of Enzo moving swiftly. When Enzo finally spoke again, his voice was like steel.
"How long?"
“I don’t know,” Matteo admitted. “But it will be soon. He’s not wasting time. He thinks we’re dead. He thinks no one will warn you."
A sharp intake of breath. Then, a quiet, deadly curse. "That son of a bitch."
Matteo knew Enzo was already calculating, already setting things into motion. His brother had always been quick, always ten steps ahead, but this? This changed everything.
"Get back here. Now, There will be a private plane waiting for you at the airport." Enzo ordered, his voice brooking no argument.
Matteo glanced at Aldo and Russo, both watching him carefully, their expressions unreadable. They were waiting. They knew what was coming.
Matteo nodded once. "We’re on our way."
He ended the call and took a deep breath, steadying himself. No more mistakes. No more waiting.
It was time to go home.