Chapter 5 - THE GRAVEYARD OF SECRETS
The heavy armored doors of the SUV clicked open, and the damp, metallic smell of the abandoned rail yard rushed in to greet us.
“Stay behind me,” Michael instructed, stepping out first and drawing a heavy, suppressed pistol from his coat with fluid, practiced ease.
Vincent followed closely, grabbing a shotgun from the vehicle’s hidden armory rack. He checked the chamber with a sharp, metallic clack that echoed off the corrugated iron walls of the warehouse.
I didn't wait for permission. I reached under the front passenger seat, pulling out a compact 9mm Glock I had learned to clean when I was fifteen, and slipped it into the pocket of my leather jacket. If the Syndicate wanted the Moretti bloodline wiped out tonight, they were going to have to get through me first.
Salvatore carefully wheeled Dad’s mobile gurney out of the vehicle, pushing it toward a cluster of rusted shipping containers that formed a makeshift fortress in the center of the warehouse floor.
“How is he?” Michael asked, keeping his eyes locked on the dark shadows near the ceiling girders.
“His pulse is spiking,” I said, pressing my hand against Dad’s cold forehead. He was shivering, his lips turning pale. “He needs a real hospital, Salvatore. We can’t just hide him in a tin shed!”
“Any hospital in the state is compromised, Sophia,” Salvatore replied, wiping sweat from his brow. “Frank has the police and the medical network in his pocket. If we go to a clinic, we sign our own death warrants.”
Suddenly, a sharp metallic scrape echoed from the far corner of the warehouse.
Clink.
Everyone froze.
Vincent raised his shotgun, aiming directly toward a stack of wooden crates fifty yards away.
“Who’s there?” Vincent called out, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space. “Show yourself!”
Silence.
Then, a slow, mocking clap began to echo from the darkness.
Clap… clap… clap…
“Impressive escape, boys,” a voice called out. It wasn't Frank. It was a voice that sounded cultured, smooth, and chillingly familiar—a voice I had only ever heard on encrypted conference calls when Dad spoke to his invisible financial backers.
A figure stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight.
He was wearing an immaculate charcoal suit, a silver tie, and leather gloves. He looked like a Wall Street executive who had accidentally wandered onto a battlefield, except for the high-end tactical rifle slung casually over his shoulder.
“Mr. Vance,” Michael hissed, his grip tightening on his pistol.
The man—Vance—smiled, tilting his head. “Michael. Or should I say, the ghost of Moretti past? I must admit, we thought you were cremated in that dumpster fire twenty years ago. Good of you to finally step out of the shadows.”
I stepped out from behind the shipping container, leveling my Glock right at his chest. “Where is my mother?”
Vance paused, looking at me with a sickening expression of polite amusement. “Ah. The youngest Moretti. Fiery. Just like Elena.”
“I asked you a question,” I snarled, my finger hovering over the trigger. “Where is she?”
Vance sighed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “She’s resting, my dear. Permanently. When you poke a sleeping bear for twenty years, you shouldn't be surprised when it finally bites back. Your mother thought she could hide behind Sicilian olive trees and old guards. She was wrong.”
Answer One: Mr. Vance, a high-ranking representative of the shadow board, confirmed that our mother had been killed in Sicily three days prior.
Open Two: If Vance and the board wanted us all dead, why hadn't his snipers already opened fire on us in the warehouse?
“You son of a bitch,” Vincent roared, lifting his shotgun, but Michael instantly grabbed the barrel, pushing it down.
“Don't, Vincent,” Michael warned, his eyes never leaving Vance. “He didn't come here to execute us tonight. If he wanted us dead, the warehouse would already be surrounded by mortar fire.”
Vance grinned, flashing a row of unnaturally white teeth. “Spot on, Michael. You haven't lost your edge. I didn't come here to kill you. I came to make an offer.”
“We don't negotiate with corporate butchers,” I snapped.
“Oh, I think you do, Sophia,” Vance countered smoothly, pulling a small, encrypted tablet from his coat. He tapped the screen twice, then turned it toward us.
The screen flickered to life, projecting a live video feed onto the side of a rusted shipping container.
It showed a dark, windowless room.
And sitting tied to a wooden chair in the center of the room, battered, bruised, but breathing, was a woman with dark hair and bright, intelligent eyes.
My breath caught in my throat.
May you like
Mom.
“She didn't die in Sicily, Sophia,” Vance smiled softly. “We thought it would be much more poetic to use her as insurance. Just in case Anthony’s little ghost brother ever decided to come home.”
