Chapter 6 - THE ULTIMATE BETRAYAL
The wind howled across the tarmac of the private airfield, whipping rain across the windshield of Frank’s black armored suburban as we tore through the perimeter security gate. The heavy metal barrier shattered against our reinforced bumper, sending sparks flying into the night.
Ahead of us, sitting on the runway with its twin jet turbines whining at full throttle, was a sleek, white Gulfstream private jet. The boarding stairs were still lowered, and a pair of Victoria’s black-armored mercenaries were scrambling up the steps.
“Hold on!” Frank yelled, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal. The heavy SUV surged forward, roaring across the wet asphalt like an enraged beast.
“Ram the landing gear!” I ordered, drawing my weapon and rolling down the passenger-side window as the freezing rain lashed against my face.
Frank didn't hesitate. He veered hard to the left, aiming the massive steel bumper directly at the jet’s front nose wheel.
CRASH!
The impact shook the entire vehicle, throwing us against our seatbelts. The Gulfstream shuddered violently, its nose dipping sideways as the landing gear buckled under the force of our collision, screeching against the tarmac in a shower of white-hot sparks. The jet spun half a circle before grinding to a halt, trapped and disabled.
“Out!” I shouted, pushing my door open and leaping into the rain.
Frank was right beside me, his rifle raised. The two mercenaries on the jet stairs tried to swing their rifles around to cover us, but Frank and I fired simultaneously. Both men dropped, tumbling backward down the metal steps into the puddles below.
We stormed up the stairs, kicking the main cabin door wide open.
The interior of the private jet was a luxurious lounge of leather seats, polished wood, and champagne buckets—and sitting alone in the center aisle, strapped into a leather chair with a glass of scotch in her hand, was Victoria.
She wasn't panicking. She wasn't running. She was sipping her drink, looking out the shattered cabin window at the burning tarmac with a look of serene, untouchable indifference.
I stepped inside, lowering my gun slightly as I stared at her. The water was dripping from my coat onto her pristine white carpet, but she didn't even blink.
“You’re remarkably persistent, Anthony,” Victoria said smoothly, taking another sip of her scotch. “I always told the board you had the stubbornness of a mule.”
“It’s over, Victoria,” I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the dying engines. “The jet is wrecked. The offshore accounts are frozen—Leo gave me the ledger before we parted ways.”
Victoria’s hand paused, her glass stopping halfway to her mouth. For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock crossed her features.
“Leo?” she whispered, her brow furrowing. “That’s impossible. He’s dead. I watched the coffin go into the ground.”
“You watched a decoy, Victoria,” I stepped closer, the barrel of my gun rising to level with her eyes. “Michael Bellini saved him. He raised him. And now, he’s the one who handed me the keys to your destruction.”
A dark, bitter laugh escaped her lips. She set her glass down on the polished mahogany table with a sharp clink.
“You fool,” Victoria said, unbuckling her seatbelt and standing up to face me. She wasn't shrinking away; she was towering over me with a terrifying, unhinged grace. “You think Leo is going to save you? You think that boy cares about the Moretti name?”
“He’s my son,” I said fiercely.
“He’s Michael Bellini’s surrogate son!” Victoria shrieked, stepping right up to the barrel of my gun until it pressed softly against the silk of her blouse. “Do you really think Michael raised him for twenty years without telling him the truth? Without teaching him to hate the name Moretti? Without whispering in his ear every single day about the monster who murdered his real father?”
The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I remembered Leo’s cold eyes in the dining room. I remembered the heavy, suffocating distance in his voice when he spoke to me. He hadn't just come back to help us escape—he had come back to finish what Michael started.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “He’s my blood.”
“He’s vengeance, Anthony,” Victoria smiled, a horrific, triumphant grin. “And while you’ve been wasting your time chasing me down on a runway, Leo is down in that armory with an old woman who has a failing heart. What do you think happens when the last witness to his real identity stops breathing?”
My blood ran cold.
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The safe house. The doctor. The woods.
It wasn't a rescue mission. It was an execution.
