16. Alessio
Alessio
The morning sun creeps through the arched windows of the master suite, painting the tangled silk sheets in shades of bruised violet and pale gold.
I lie on my back, watching the dust motes dance in the light, my arm securely banded across the waist of the woman sleeping beside me.
Caterina rests her cheek against my chest, her breathing even and incredibly peaceful.
She finally surrendered the exhausting fight, choosing to fold herself into my embrace rather than maintaining the icy, aristocratic barricades she erected the day I forced my ring onto her finger.
The encrypted audio receiver down in my study remains delightfully dead, confirming she powered off the smuggled device and severed her ties with her treacherous cousin.
She chose me. The realization sends a rush of possessive satisfaction straight through my veins, but the victory is abruptly interrupted by the obnoxious, jarring ring of the secure syndicate line resting on the nightstand.
I reach across the mattress, snatching the receiver before the noise can wake my exhausted wife, pressing the plastic to my ear.
"Speak," I command, my voice a rough, gravelly scrape that reflects my irritation at the intrusion.
"We have a massive problem at the southern harbor, Boss," Silvio announces over the encrypted line, the background noise filled with shouting men and the distinctive, rapid-fire crack of automatic weapons.
"Matteo Falco just launched a blind, desperate strike on Pier 4.
He did not wait to secure the interior bypass codes or coordinate with an inside mole.
He brought three dozen traditionalists and ambushed the Irish weapons shipment while it was still being unloaded from the freighters. "
"Contain the perimeter and lock down the shipping containers," I instruct, throwing the silk duvet aside and swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress, my blood running scorching hot with the promise of impending violence.
"I am on my way. Do not let that rat slip back into the city, Silvio. I want his head."
I disconnect the call, tossing the phone onto the nightstand, and move swiftly into the walk-in closet to retrieve my tactical gear.
Matteo realized his communication line had been severed when Caterina failed to transmit the security algorithms, and the resulting panic forced him to launch a reckless, localized assault without the proper intelligence.
He is a cornered animal lashing out at the nearest available target, and I intend to put him down permanently.
I strap my customized holster across my chest, securing the spare magazines, before leaning over the mattress to brush a gentle kiss against Caterina's bare shoulder.
She stirs slightly, burying her face deeper into the pillows, completely oblivious to the bloody war her cousin just ignited across town.
I lock the bedroom doors behind me, instructing Rocco and Gianni to shoot anyone who attempts to breach the west wing, and sprint down the grand staircase to the armored SUV idling in the circular driveway.
The Boston harbor is engulfed in a thick, oppressive fog that smells of decaying kelp, rusted iron, and the distinct, acrid stench of burning cordite.
I slam the door of the Maybach before the vehicle even comes to a complete halt, drawing my weapon as I sprint toward the chaotic epicenter of the docks.
Pier 4 is a sprawling maze of towering corrugated-metal shipping containers, and the narrow corridors between the metal behemoths are currently illuminated by the blinding flashes of gunfire.
Matteo's traditionalist faction lacks the sophisticated tactical training of my enforcers, but they possess the reckless, dangerous advantage of sheer desperation.
They are spraying bullets blindly into the fog, forcing my men to take cover behind the forklift machinery and the reinforced wooden crates containing the imported Irish artillery.
"They hit the transport trucks before we could even finalize the manifest," Dante shouts, crouching behind a stack of steel barrels, blood dripping from a superficial graze along his cheekbone.
"We lost four men in the initial volley, Alessio.
The bastards simply drove two stolen box trucks right through the chain-link gates and started butchering anyone wearing a Severato crest."
"Flank them from the eastern seawall," I order, ducking beneath a sudden spray of bullets that ricochet off the metal container inches above my head, raining sparks down onto the wet concrete. "Push them toward the water. Do not give them an avenue to retreat back into the industrial district."
I advance through the labyrinth of shipping crates, my boots splashing through the murky puddles of rainwater and spilled engine coolant, my finger resting securely against the trigger of my handgun.
The firefight is a disjointed, messy nightmare of screaming men and shattering glass.
A traditionalist soldier steps out from behind a rusted crane, raising a shotgun in my direction, but I do not hesitate.
I fire two rounds into his chest, stepping over his collapsing body without breaking my stride, my eyes scanning the chaotic battlefield for the cowardly architect of this massacre.
I finally spot Matteo near the edge of the pier, screaming frantic instructions at his diminishing squad of loyalists while attempting to pry open a crate of stolen assault rifles.
He looks pathetic, his tailored suit ruined by the grime of the docks, his face twisted in a mask of unmitigated panic as he realizes his desperate gamble is failing spectacularly.
"Matteo!" I roar, my voice slicing effortlessly through the deafening noise of the combat, demanding his attention.
He snaps his head in my direction, his eyes widening in unadulterated terror as he registers my approach.
He does not draw his weapon and stand his ground like a man defending his family's legacy.
Instead, he grabs the nearest traditionalist soldier by the collar, violently shoving the young man directly into my line of fire to serve as a human shield.
Before I can adjust my aim, Matteo scrambles over the wooden crates and vaults over the edge of the concrete pier, dropping into a waiting, motorized speedboat hidden beneath the shadows of the docks.
The outboard motor roars to life, churning the dark water into a frothy white wake as the boat shoots out into the dense, impenetrable fog covering the harbor.
I fire several rounds into the mist, cursing viciously in Italian as the coward slips through my fingers, abandoning his own men to face the consequences of his disastrous leadership.
The remaining traditionalists surrender within minutes, throwing their weapons onto the wet pavement and dropping to their knees the moment they realize their commander fled the battlefield.
I walk back through the carnage, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache, surveying the devastating toll of Matteo's reckless ambition.
Four loyal Severato soldiers lie dead on the concrete, their blood mixing with the rainwater and draining into the harbor.
They were good men, men who followed my orders without question, and they died because a pathetic, scheming rat threw a tantrum when my wife refused to hand over the keys to the castle.
My encrypted phone vibrates against my chest, interrupting my dark thoughts as Silvio directs the cleanup crew to manage the bodies.
I pull the device free, staring at the caller ID displaying my brother's name.
Niccolò never calls unless the situation requires a monumental shift in strategy, and the fact that he is contacting me directly indicates the news of the ambush has already reached the central estate.
"Bring the surviving prisoners to the interrogation rooms beneath the main house," Niccolò commands, his tone radiating a cold, homicidal fury that promises an agonizing end for the men who surrendered.
"And go back to the Falco compound to retrieve your wife.
We are going to address this rebellion permanently. "
"I will be there," I confirm, disconnecting the call and signaling for my driver to bring the SUV around.
The drive back to my compound is a blur of gray streets and blinding rage.
Matteo's escape is a festering wound, a failure I must rectify before the traditionalist factions can regroup and launch another suicidal attack against our infrastructure.
I storm through the front doors of the Falco estate, bypassing the maids scrubbing the entrance hall, and take the grand staircase with purposeful, ground-eating strides.
I push the bedroom doors open, finding Caterina fully dressed in a tailored charcoal pantsuit and a crimson silk blouse, looking every inch the formidable, untouchable queen of the syndicate.
She is reviewing a leather-bound ledger at the small glass table near the windows, her raven hair pinned up in an elegant twist, but she drops the pen the moment she registers the blood splattered across my tactical gear.
"Alessio," she breathes, pushing herself out of the chair, her brown eyes widening in alarm as she rushes forward to inspect my frame for injuries. "What happened? You are covered in blood."
"It is not mine," I assure her, catching her hands before she can stain her immaculate clothing with the grime of the harbor. "Your cousin grew impatient. He launched a blind strike on Pier 4 this morning, slaughtering four of my men before fleeing the scene like the pathetic coward he is."