Chapter 4 - The Midnight Confession
The Temple of Dendur was closed to the general public.
Behind the heavy glass security partitions, the ancient Egyptian sandstone temple sat bathed in pale blue architectural light, reflected in the shallow indoor pool that mirrored the Manhattan skyline outside the massive sloping glass wall.
The vast hall was deathly quiet, save for the soft trickling of water.
At the far end of the pool, seated on a simple wooden chair facing the sandstone monument, was an elderly man in a charcoal wool overcoat. His hair was completely silver, cut short, and he held a wooden walking stick carved from olive wood.
Bernardo Romano did not look like a monster. He looked like an ancient philosopher contemplating ruins.
Four guards stood in the deep shadows near the pillars, motionless as statues.
Isabella led Luca along the edge of the water. Her heels clicked softly against the stone floor, the only rhythm in the echoing silence.
As they reached the old man, Bernardo slowly turned his head.
His face was lined with deep crevices of time and violence, but his eyes were identical to Isabella’s—deep, obsidian, and utterly unreadable.
*"Papà,"* Isabella spoke softly, dipping her head with profound reverence.
Bernardo smiled, a warm, fatherly expression that transformed his rugged face, and reached out to clasp her hand. *"Bella mia. Sei bellissima stasera."*
He kissed the back of her hand, then slowly shifted his gaze to Luca.
The warmth vanished instantly. The air in the hall dropped ten degrees.
"Luca Moretti," Bernardo said. His voice was gravelly, resonant, carrying the cadence of the Sicilian mountains. He spoke English with a heavy, aristocratic accent. "You look like your grandfather. Vincenzo Moretti. He was an impetuous man. He stole cattle in Corleone before he fled to America."
Luca stood tall, refusing to lower his head. "My grandfather built a shipping fleet from nothing, Don Bernardo."
"He built a fleet with money he borrowed from my brothers," Bernardo replied coldly, tapping his wooden stick against the stone floor. *Crack.* "And now his grandson sends hired guns to rattle the gates of my home."
"Your daughter was withholding documents critical to my enterprise," Luca said evenly. "I acted to protect my business."
"You acted like a merchant with a gun," Bernardo corrected sharply. "A true sovereign knows who his neighbors are before he knocks on their doors. You threatened my blood. You threatened the only thing on this earth I care about."
One of the guards in the shadows took a half-step forward, his hand slipping inside his jacket.
Luca didn't flinch. He looked directly into the eyes of the most dangerous man in Southern Europe. "I made an error in judgment regarding Isabella's lineage. But I will not apologize for demanding loyalty from those who work in my house."
Bernardo stared at him for five long seconds. Then, unexpectedly, a low rumble of laughter emerged from his chest.
"He has your stubbornness, Isabella," the old man chuckled, glancing up at his daughter. "Arrogant. Blind. But unbroken."
"He's reckless, Papà," Isabella said, though her eyes remained fixed on Luca, a flicker of nervous tension tightening her jaw.
"Recklessness can be cured by wisdom," Bernardo said, leaning back. "Stupidity cannot. Moretti, the delay in your Mediterranean shipping lanes was not caused by my family. It was engineered."
Luca frowned, his corporate instincts immediately overriding his survival instincts. "Engineered? By whom?"
"By someone who wants your New York family to war with mine," Bernardo replied, his eyes narrowing. "A faction within your own council has been selling access to your docks to the Russian syndicate out of Brighton Beach. They used my family's old shell companies to disguise the payments, knowing that if you investigated, you would point your weapons at Sicily."
Luca’s blood ran cold.
*A rat in his own house.*
"Who?" Luca demanded.
Before Bernardo could speak, a sharp, concussive *crack* shattered the massive glass wall above the Egyptian temple.
A high-caliber sniper round tore through the glass, sending shards of crystal raining down into the reflecting pool.
"Down!" Isabella screamed.
Luca’s instincts took over before thought could register. He didn't dive for his own cover. He lunged across the stone walkway, wrapping his arms around Isabella's waist, slamming her body beneath his as they crashed behind the thick sandstone base of an Egyptian column.
A second round pulverized the stone where Isabella had been standing half a second earlier, showering them in white dust.
"Papà!" Isabella cried out against Luca's chest.
Across the pavilion, Bernardo's guards had already moved with terrifying speed. Two men threw themselves over the old Don, while the other two drew automatic weapons equipped with suppressors, firing precise, controlled bursts toward the dark balcony of the museum’s upper mezzanine.
Luca held Isabella pinned beneath him, his broad shoulders shielding her entirely from the falling glass and ricocheting bullets.
"Are you hit?" Luca breathed heavily, his face inches from hers. The scent of her hair was mixed with the bitter smell of cordite and pulverized sandstone.
Isabella looked up at him. Her emerald dress was smeared with stone dust, her hair disheveled, but her eyes were wild with adrenaline—and something deeper. She saw that his first, instinctive reaction had not been self-preservation. It had been to take a bullet for her.
"I'm fine," she whispered, her hands gripping the lapels of his tuxedo. "Luca, your back—"
"I'm fine," he growled, ignoring the sting of glass shards tearing through his jacket.
Above them, the gunfire ceased abruptly. A heavy thud sounded from the mezzanine as a body dropped over the railing, crashing onto the marble floor below.
One of Bernardo's guards appeared around the column, weapon lowered.
*"Tutto pulito, Don Bernardo,"* the guard reported. *"Il tiratore è morto." (All clear. The shooter is dead.)*
Luca slowly pulled himself up, extending a hand to Isabella. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. For a moment, she leaned into his chest, steadying herself, and Luca’s arm remained firmly around her waist, refusing to let go.
Bernardo stood up, dusting off his woolen overcoat as if nothing more than a sudden gust of wind had disturbed him.
He walked over to the sniper's body lying broken on the marble floor. He used his cane to turn the dead man's face toward the light.
Luca stepped forward, Isabella right beside him.
Luca looked down at the dead sniper's neck. Tattooed beneath the jaw was a small, two-headed serpent.
"Dmitri’s men," Luca said, his teeth gritting together with murderous realization. "Brighton Beach."
"And who gave them access to the museum's private security codes tonight, Moretti?" Bernardo asked, his voice dark as a grave.
Luca closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, the puzzle pieces clicking together with devastating clarity.
May you like
"Salvatore Vane," Luca said.
***
