Chapter 6 - The Dinner of Vipers
"They bypassed the biometric locks," one of Dante’s elite guards reported over the encrypted comms channel, his voice tight with tension. "Someone inside the municipal grid gave them the override codes. It’s a clean sweep, Boss. We’re locked down, but they brought thermal charges."
Dante didn't panic. His face hardened into a mask of pure, chilling granite. He turned away from the console, unholstering a suppressed Sig Sauer P226 and checking the magazine with practiced, mechanical efficiency.
"Wake the boy," Dante ordered without looking at me. "Silvio’s men and the Moretti strike team are coordinating. This isn't just a retrieval mission—they’re here to wipe us out."
"I'm not running anymore, Dante," I said, my voice steadying as adrenaline coursed through my veins. The fear that had paralyzed me for three years suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, protective rage. They had taken my youth, my family, and my peace. They would not take my son. "Julian wants the ledger? Let’s give him a show."
Dante paused, a rare flicker of dark amusement crossing his features. For a fraction of a second, the ruthless mafia boss looked at me not as a rescued victim, but as an equal.
"Stay behind me," Dante said tersely, handing me a compact Beretta 92FS. "If anyone comes through that door who isn't wearing my insignia, you empty the magazine. Do you understand?"
I took the cold steel of the gun, my grip firming around the checkered grip. "I understand."
Heavy thuds echoed from the private elevator shaft—the sound of hydraulic locks being blown by thermal charges. The steel doors groaned, buckling inward under immense pressure, before being violently blown open in a shower of sparks and acrid smoke.
Through the haze stepped Julian Moretti.
He looked immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit, his silver-streaked hair neatly combed, a condescending smirk playing on his thin lips. Behind him, half a dozen heavily armed mercenaries fanned out into the penthouse, laser sights painting the walls in eerie red dots.
"Well, well, well," Julian drawled, stepping over the smoking debris of the elevator door, his eyes scanning the luxurious room before landing squarely on Dante and me. "The great Dante Carter, reduced to playing house in a glass cage with my runaway wife’s little sister."
Dante stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Julian and me. "You’re a long way from Mayfair, Julian. And your security clearance doesn't cover this zip code."
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"Keep your bravado, Dante," Julian laughed, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. He gestured casually with his hand. "The police are currently labeling this a domestic dispute gone wrong. By the time morning breaks, you and Elena will be nothing more than tragic statistics in a botched robbery. Now... where is the ledger?"
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