Chapter 9
Alessio
Iwatched my restaurant burn on Domenico's laptop screen. Flames licked the night sky, smoke billowing into darkness. Three body bags lined the street. The smallest was barely four feet long.
Seven years old. A child whose only crime was celebrating her birthday at the wrong goddamn place.
"He wants a war," I said, voice flat. "He'll get one."
Valentina stood at the window, silhouette framed against dawn light. She'd dressed in silence, every movement precise, controlled. The society princess had burned away, leaving something sharper. Dangerous.
"No," she said. "He wants you dead. The war is just collateral."
I closed the laptop, rage a living thing in my chest. "Then he'll die disappointed."
She turned, green eyes cold. "We need to destroy him. Not just kill him. Destroy everything he's built, everything he is."
We'd spent three days planning for this. Valentina had mapped every passage, every patrol route, every blind spot in her father's estate. Domenico had forged catering credentials, arranged extraction vehicles, and positioned backup teams at three points along our exit route.
Now, Marco had given us one more reason to burn it all down. A seven-year-old girl—dead—because her parents chose the wrong restaurant for a birthday dinner.
I closed the laptop and looked at Valentina. She stood at the window with the same cold focus I'd watched her build over the past week—the society princess replaced by something forged in fire and loss.
Terrifying, beautiful woman.
"We go tonight," I said. "As planned."
She nodded. No hesitation. "As planned."
The drive to the DeLuca estate took three hours. We spent it reviewing the plan, checking equipment, and preparing for every contingency. Domenico had inserted us into the catering roster, complete with fake employment histories and references.
Marco's estate rose from manicured grounds like a monument to wealth and power. Three stories of white stone, columns framing the entrance. Gardens immaculate, security discreet but present. Two hundred guests milled about, champagne flutes catching sunlight.
Perfect cover.
We entered through the service entrance, blended with the other staff. Black uniforms, white gloves, practiced deference. Valentina moved through the kitchen with ease, navigating like she'd never left.
"Follow me," she murmured. "Stay close."
We slipped into a side corridor, then into a narrow passage behind the walls. Dust motes floated in dim light from ventilation grates. I could hear guests laughing, music playing, and champagne corks popping.
Valentina navigated the maze with perfect confidence, her photographic memory guiding each turn. We climbed narrow stairs, moved past guest rooms, and finally reached the third floor.
She stopped at a panel and pressed her ear against it. Listening.
"Clear," she whispered.
The panel opened into Marco's study. Dark wood, leather chairs, a mahogany desk that probably cost more than most people's cars. And there—a painting on the far wall. Renaissance era, expensive, tasteful.
It swung open to reveal a safe.
Valentina crossed to it, fingers flying over the keypad. Her mother's birthday. The combination clicked, the lock disengaging.
Inside: ledgers, USB drives, folders thick with documentation. A treasure trove of evidence.
I pulled the encrypted drive from my pocket and began downloading files. Banking records, shipping manifests, cartel communications. Everything we needed to bury Marco.
Valentina flipped through the ledgers, eyes widening. "Jesus. He's got senators, judges, and police captains on the payroll. This goes deeper than I thought."
"How much deeper?"
"All the way to—"
The door opened.
Marco DeLuca stood in the entrance, gun already drawn. Not surprised, not shocked. Just coldly satisfied.
"Did you really think I wouldn't know you'd come?" he said, aiming the weapon at Valentina's chest. "You're predictable, just like your mother. And just like her, you're going to disappear."
I reached for my weapon.
Movement behind him. Bodies filling the hallway—too many, too coordinated. Not regular security.
Marco's smile didn't waver.
He'd known we were coming. Had known from the moment we stepped through the service entrance, maybe before. Every step we'd taken through those servant passages, every turn Valentina's photographic memory had guided us through—he'd let it happen.
The safe. The files. The combination he'd never changed.
Bait.
All of it.