Chapter 4 - THE BOATHOUSE
The rain had started, a torrential downpour that turned the Moretti estate’s manicured lawns into slick mud.
Adriana ran. She had kicked off her heels in the kitchen. Her bare feet slapped against the cold stone paths, her heavy, soaked wedding dress dragging behind her like a parachute. Sofia clung to her back, her small arms wrapped tightly around Adriana’s neck.
“Don’t let go, sweetie,” Adriana whispered.
“I won’t,” Sofia promised.
The boathouse loomed at the edge of the lake, a dark, wooden structure completely devoid of light.
Adriana crept to the side window. She wiped the condensation away.
Inside, illuminated by a single swinging work light, was Elena. She was tied to a wooden chair, her blood-red dress torn, her face bruised. Standing in front of her was Vittorio Moretti himself.
He was holding a heavy iron chain.
“Twelve years, Elena,” Vittorio spat, pacing around her. “Twelve years I mourned a daughter-in-law. And all this time, you were feeding my shipments, my accounts, my life to the Feds.”
“They have everything, Vittorio,” Elena laughed, though it ended in a cough. “Killing me won’t stop the indictments tomorrow morning. It’s over.”
“It’s not over until I say it is,” Vittorio growled. He leaned in close. “Where is my granddaughter?”
“Safe. Far away from a monster like you.”
“I’ll find her,” Vittorio promised. “I will raise her as a Moretti. And as for that little stray Luca married today? I’ll bury her right next to you.”
Outside, Adriana felt a surge of pure, blinding rage.
She wasn’t a mafia princess. She was an elementary school teacher. But this man had hunted her mother. He had orchestrated her entire life, her marriage, her heartbreak.
Adriana set Sofia down behind a thick oak tree. “Stay here. Do not make a sound.”
Adriana gripped the heavy brass keyring she had taken from Domenico. She unlocked the side door of the boathouse and slipped inside.
Vittorio was wrapping the iron chain around Elena’s waist, preparing to sink her into the lake.
“Vittorio!” Adriana shouted.
The old man spun around.
Adriana stood in her ruined wedding dress, aiming Luca’s Glock with both hands.
Vittorio froze. Then, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
“Look at this,” he chuckled. “The lamb finds some teeth.”
“Let her go,” Adriana demanded, her hands shaking, but her voice steady.
“Or what?” Vittorio taunted, taking a step toward her. “You’ve never fired a gun in your life, Adriana. You don’t have the stomach for this.”
“Maybe not,” a weak, ragged voice echoed from the main entrance.
Adriana gasped.
Standing in the doorway, clutching his bleeding side, was Luca. He was pale as a ghost, but his eyes were pure fire.
“But I do,” Luca whispered.
Vittorio looked at his son. “You would shoot your own father for these whores?”
“They aren’t whores,” Luca said, raising a second gun he’d taken from Marco. “They’re my family.”
Suddenly, the boathouse floorboards groaned.
Before Luca could pull the trigger, a shadow dropped from the rafters above. Marco.
Marco brought a heavy wooden oar down on Luca’s head, knocking him unconscious.
Adriana screamed, aiming the gun at Marco.
May you like
Marco stared back at her, his face devoid of emotion.
“I’m sorry, Adriana,” Marco said. “But my father isn't the one running the syndicate anymore. I am.”
