Chapter 6 - THE TRAP IS SPRUNG
The Moretti mansion was shrouded in darkness, a sprawling, Gothic monolith sitting silently under a moonless sky. A heavy fog had rolled off the Long Island Sound, creeping over the manicured lawns and wrapping around the stone pillars like ghostly fingers. To the outside observer, the estate appeared entirely deserted. The perimeter guard booths were empty. The massive wrought-iron gates were unlocked. The security cameras had been systematically deactivated.
Inside the grand study, Lucas Moretti sat behind his massive mahogany desk, shrouded in the shadows.
The only light in the room came from a single, low-wattage desk lamp that cast long, distorted shadows against the walls lined with thousands of leather-bound books. Lucas sat perfectly still, his customized 1911 pistol resting flat on the polished wood in front of him, right next to the pink, sticker-covered inhaler. He was not alone, though the room felt empty. Silas, Carlo, and twenty of the syndicate’s most lethal, old-guard enforcers were hidden throughout the mansion, blending into the dark corridors and vaulted ceilings like phantoms.
At exactly 12:45 AM, the silence of the estate was broken.
The sound of tires crunching aggressively on gravel echoed through the fog. Three black SUVs tore up the sweeping driveway, braking hard in front of the main entrance. Doors slammed.
Lucas closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his heart beating a slow, steady, icy rhythm against his ribs. Victor had returned from the Navy Yard. He had found empty shipping containers and no Colombians. He had realized the tip was fake, and in his paranoid, guilty mind, he knew the trap was closing. Victor had come to finish the job he started three years ago.
Heavy boots pounded up the front stone steps. The grand oak doors were violently kicked open, the sound echoing like a cannon shot through the cavernous foyer.
“Spread out!” Victor’s voice roared, echoing up the marble staircase. It was no longer the smooth, calculated voice of a loyal lieutenant; it was the frantic, vicious snarl of a cornered animal. “Check the upper floors! If you see anyone, drop them. I want Lucas! He’s mine!”
Lucas remained seated. He didn't flinch as the sound of heavily armed men swarming the first floor reverberated through the walls. He waited, his finger gently resting against the cold steel of his pistol.
The heavy oak doors of the private study swung open, slamming against the bookcases.
Victor Romano stepped into the doorway, sweeping the room with a tactical rifle equipped with a blinding flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, instantly locking onto Lucas sitting calmly behind the desk.
Victor froze. He was breathing heavily, his bespoke suit ruined by the damp fog, his eyes wide with a mixture of adrenaline and raw hatred. He kept the rifle aimed squarely at Lucas’s chest. Four of Victor’s most trusted shooters piled into the doorway behind him, raising their submachine guns.
“Lucas,” Victor spat, stepping into the room. He looked around the dimly lit study, noticing the unnatural silence. “Where are your guards? Where is your security detail? Did you really think you could bait me into a trap and then sit here alone like a sitting duck?”
“I’m not alone, Victor,” Lucas said quietly, his voice entirely devoid of fear. “I’m sitting with the ghosts of my wife and son. And they are very eager to see you.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer to the desk, the barrel of his rifle never wavering. “You figured it out. Took you long enough. You were always too soft, Lucas. Too busy reading law books and playing house to realize an empire is built on blood. You wanted to go clean? You wanted to make us legitimate? You would have ruined everything your grandfather built.”
“So you burned my family alive,” Lucas said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “You stood at their graves and hugged me, you piece of shit.”
“It was business, Lucas!” Victor shouted, stepping forward, his finger tightening on the trigger. “I did what had to be done to protect the syndicate! And when you went crazy and wiped out the Rossis for me, I thought maybe you’d found your spine. But then you went right back to being weak. Having panic attacks in the hallways. You aren't fit to wear the crown. Now, stand up and take this like a man. It’s over.”
Lucas looked at the four armed men standing behind Victor.
“Are you sure it’s over, Victor?” Lucas asked smoothly.
Before Victor could process the question, the shadows of the mansion came alive.
From the hidden ventilation grates, from behind the heavy velvet curtains, and from the secret servant passages built into the walls, the old guard struck. It happened with terrifying, orchestrated speed.
Silas Vance stepped out from behind a massive tapestry directly behind Victor’s men. He didn't yell. He didn't hesitate. He raised his suppressed pistol and fired four rapid, perfectly placed shots. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
The four shooters standing behind Victor collapsed to the floor simultaneously, completely dead before they even registered they were under attack.
Victor spun around in absolute shock, raising his rifle, but Carlo stepped out from the darkness of the hallway, raising a massive 12-gauge shotgun. Carlo fired a single, deafening blast into the ceiling, raining plaster and wood down on Victor’s head.
“Drop the rifle, you treacherous rat, or I’ll blow you in half!” Carlo roared, racking the shotgun with a terrifying, metallic clack.
Victor looked at his dead men on the floor. He looked at Carlo, Silas, and the dozen heavily armed loyalists pouring into the hallway, completely cutting off his escape. His hostile takeover had evaporated in less than ten seconds.
Slowly, his hands shaking, Victor lowered the tactical rifle and let it clatter to the hardwood floor.
May you like
He turned back to face Lucas, expecting to see a triumphant smirk. But Lucas wasn't smiling. Lucas stood up from the desk, picking up his 1911 pistol. He walked around the desk, his massive frame towering over Victor, his eyes completely dead.
“You said I was weak, Victor,” Lucas whispered, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol directly against Victor’s forehead. “Let’s see how strong you are.”
