Chapter 7 - The Rescue and the Confrontation
The courtyard of the Moretti estate turned into a war zone within seconds.
Automatic gunfire shattered the ancient stone fountains as Salvatore Romano’s men poured out of black vans, wearing tactical gear and firing indiscriminately at the security detail.
Inside the study, Aleandro remained entirely calm. He unlocked a hidden compartment behind the mahogany bookshelves, pulling out a custom-rigged tactical submachine gun and sliding extra magazines into his jacket pockets.
He turned to Sophia, who was gripping the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.
“Stay in the panic room behind the library,” Aleandro instructed, his voice brooking no argument. “Marco will stay with you and Emma.”
“No,” Sophia said firmly, stepping forward. “I’m not hiding anymore, Aleandro. You think your enemies won’t look for us if you lock us away? If we’re going to survive this, we face it together.”
Aleandro stared at her for a long, intense moment. A rare, fierce smile touched the corners of his mouth—not a warm smile, but the expression of a man who had just found his equal.
“All right,” Aleandro said, handing her a compact 9mm pistol from the armory drawer and checking the safety. “Just stay behind me.”
They stepped out into the grand hallway just as the front oak doors splintered inward under the force of a battering ram.
Salvatore Romano stepped through the smoke, holding a shotgun, flanked by six armed enforcers. His face was twisted into a psychotic grin.
“Aleandro!” Salvatore shouted over the fading echoes of gunfire. “Come out and face your maker! You took my daughter from me!”
“You killed your own daughter, Salvatore, all for a crown you’ll never wear,” Aleandro’s voice echoed down the grand staircase.
Salvatore looked up, spotting Aleandro standing on the second-floor landing with Sophia by his side. He raised his shotgun. “Kill them all! Leave no one alive!”
Before Salvatore’s men could squeeze their triggers, the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows flanking the staircase shattered inward.
Dozens of elite Moretti loyalists—operatives who had been positioned in the surrounding trees and guest houses—poured through the openings, dropping smoke grenades and flashbangs into the foyer.
The battle was ferocious, loud, and mercifully short. Salvatore’s men were outflanked, outgunned, and overwhelmed within ninety seconds.
Salvatore tried to scramble backward toward the broken doorway, but a heavy boot slammed down onto his ankle, pinning him to the marble floor.
Aleandro walked down the grand staircase, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone. He stood over Salvatore, casually resting the barrel of his weapon against the older man’s forehead.
“You wanted my empire, Salvatore,” Aleandro whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “You wanted my blood. But you stepped into a house you didn't own, and you threatened a child who belongs to me.”
Salvatore wheezed, blood trickling from his nose, his eyes wide with absolute terror. “Aleandro... wait... we can make a deal—”
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“The only deal you’re getting is a shallow grave in the New Jersey marshes,” Aleandro said coldly, signaling to Marco.
Two guards dragged the screaming, thrashing Don out through the splintered front doors, sealing the fate of the Romano syndicate forever.
