PART 5: Gathering the Inner Circle
PART 5: Gathering the Inner Circle
Syndicate leaders prepare for war.
By 4:15 a.m., the high-security briefing room on the subterranean level was packed with my top commanders, weapons specialists, and intelligence officers.
Maps of the estate’s perimeter sensors, satellite feeds of the surrounding access roads, and architectural schematics of the east wing covered the digital display boards.
I stood at the head of the polished obsidian table, leaning forward with my hands planted firmly on the surface, my eyes scanning the faces of the men who had bled for me.
“Elena Cross—my late brother’s wife—has been living in our staff quarters for three years,” I stated without preamble, watching my commanders absorb the shock of the revelation. “An hour ago, assassins looking to eliminate the remaining members of Marcus’s bloodline left a chemical hazard in her quarters. They know she’s here.”
Vance stepped up to the digital map, tapping a series of red blinking icons near the northern perimeter fence.
“We caught a silent-ping transmission from an unencrypted satellite phone near the ridge line ten minutes ago,” Vance reported grimly. “It’s a strike team from the syndicate that took out Marcus in Chicago twelve years ago. They aren't here for a simple warning—they’re moving in to clear the entire estate.”
A heavy, dangerous murmur rippled through the room.
Nobody challenged my decision to harbor my brother’s family. In our world, blood was an absolute law, and an attack on a Moretti—no matter how long hidden—was an act of war against the entire syndicate.
“Lock down all exterior gates,” I commanded, my voice cold and absolute. “Activate the automated thermal turrets along the ridge line. I want every entry point fortified within ten minutes.”
“And the child?” one of the lieutenants asked cautiously.
“Lily stays in the armored core of the bunker with her mother,” I replied instantly. “Nobody touches my blood. If a single enemy combatant crosses the threshold of this estate, I want them dismantled before they reach the courtyard.”
“Understood, Boss,” Vance nodded, turning to bark orders at the tactical squad leaders.
As the room cleared out into a flurry of hurried preparations, I walked back toward the private armory adjoining my office to strap on my tactical vest and check the dual Berettas resting in my holster.
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The midnight knock of a barefoot three-year-old girl had disrupted the quiet isolation of my life.
It had also given me something I hadn't felt in twelve years: a reason to tear hell apart to protect what belonged to me.
