Chapter 7 - The Betrayal of the Right Hand
The private recovery suite in the Romano estate was fortified like a medieval citadel.
Emily woke thirty-six hours later to the rhythmic thrum of rain against bulletproof glass and the dull, throbbing ache of three cracked ribs wrapped tightly in medical compression bandages.
She was lying in a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton. Standing at the foot of the bed was Marco, his arm in a sling, looking grayer and older than he had two days ago.
“Miss Carter,” Marco said softly as her eyes fluttered open. “Do not try to sit up too quickly. Dr. Vance taped your ribs. You suffered a mild concussion, but there is no internal bleeding.”
Emily swallowed, her throat dry as sand. “Alessandro?”
Marco’s face grew somber. “The boss hasn't slept in two days. Victor Russo took twenty loyal men and fled to Don Moretti’s compound on the South Side. They are attempting to orchestrate a full syndicate coup. Moretti has given Victor sanctuary.”
“Where is he now?”
“Securing the perimeter,” Marco said, nodding toward the window.
Emily pushed through the searing pain in her side, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. She ignored Marco’s protests, grabbing a silk robe from the chair and wrapping it around herself as she shuffled toward the French doors leading to the balcony.
Below, in the sprawling stone courtyard of the estate, thirty black SUVs were parked in formation. Fifty armed men checked weapons, loaded magazines, and strapped on tactical gear under the floodlights. It was not a criminal gang prepping for a heist; it was a private army preparing for war.
Alessandro stood at the hood of the lead vehicle, pointing at a blueprint spread across the metal. He wore all black—tactical vest, combat boots, a heavy sidearm holstered on his chest. He looked like an archangel of death preparing to raze a city.
As if feeling her gaze, Alessandro looked up.
His eyes found her on the balcony. For a moment, the war around him ceased to exist. He stared up at her, his face carved from sorrow and lethal determination. He touched two fingers to his lips, raised them toward her, and then turned back to his men.
“Ten minutes!” Alessandro’s voice boomed across the courtyard. “We move on Moretti’s compound at midnight! Victor Russo dies tonight!”
A dark, terrifying chill swept through Emily’s veins.
She knew how this ended. If Alessandro stormed Moretti’s fortress, hundreds would die. The city would become a slaughterhouse. Even if Alessandro won, the federal authorities, the police, and rival syndicates would tear him apart in the aftermath. The monster would consume him completely, wiping away every trace of the man who had sat at her counter with two one-dollar bills.
She turned toward Marco. “Get me my clothes.”
“Miss Carter, you cannot leave this room—”
“Get me my clothes, Marco!” she snapped, the fire in her eyes making the hardened enforcer take a step back. “Or I will walk down those stairs in this robe and stand in front of his truck!”
Ten minutes later, as Alessandro strapped on his combat gloves and reached for the door of the lead SUV, a clear, commanding voice cut through the roar of idling engines.
“Alessandro!”
The entire courtyard went dead silent. Fifty armed hitmen turned to look at the terrace steps.
Emily walked down the stone stairs slowly, every step sending a jolt of fire through her ribs, but her back was straight, her head held high. She wore dark jeans, a thick woolen sweater, and boots. Her face was pale, with a dark bruise blossoming across her left cheekbone, but her hazel eyes burned with undeniable power.
Alessandro froze. He dropped his hand from the truck door, his jaw tightening.
“Emily, go back inside,” he commanded, his voice strained with desperate protectiveness. “This isn't for you to see.”
Emily marched straight through the ranks of armed men. They stepped aside for her instinctively, parting like the Red Sea before a queen. She stopped two feet from Alessandro, looking up into his tortured, furious face.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” she said.
“Victor tried to slaughter you in cold blood!” Alessandro roared, his composure fracturing, his chest heaving with violent emotion. “He broke the code! He brought the war to innocent people! I will skin him alive and burn Moretti’s empire to the ground!”
“And what happens to you after?” Emily challenged, taking a step closer, placing her hand directly over the cold steel of the gun holstered against his chest. “When you kill them all, Alessandro? When you become the monster everyone always said you were? Who puts you back together? Who sits across from you when the blood dries?”
Alessandro stared at her hand on his chest. His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling with adrenaline.
“I can't let him walk away, Emily,” he choked out, his voice dropping into a broken whisper that only she could hear. “If I don't destroy them, they will come for you again. They will hurt you to get to me. I would rather die ten thousand deaths than watch you bleed on that floor again.”
“Then be smarter than them!” Emily urged, her fingers gripping the lapels of his tactical vest, pulling him down until their foreheads almost touched. “Don't walk into Moretti’s ambush like a mad dog! Victor wants you to attack the compound! He wants you to violate the commission’s treaty so the other families have an excuse to wipe you out!”
Alessandro’s eyes widened slightly. The red haze of fury that had blinded him for two days suddenly cleared, replaced by the calculating, brilliant strategist beneath.
“The ledger,” Alessandro whispered.
“What?”
“Victor’s offshore accounts,” Alessandro said, his mind racing, connecting the pieces. “He couldn't have bought Moretti’s loyalty with promises alone. He embezzled from the Romano treasury. If I prove Victor stole from the syndicate to fund a personal coup, Moretti won't protect him. The commission will order Moretti to hand Victor over on a silver platter.”
Emily squeezed his vest. “Win the war, Alessandro. But don't lose your soul doing it.”
Alessandro looked down at her. In front of fifty of his most lethal killers, the Don of the Romano family reached up, cupped her bruised cheek with his gloved hand, and pressed a deep, fierce, desperate kiss against her lips.
It tasted of rain, iron, and a promise carved in stone.
He pulled back, his hazel eyes glowing with cold, brilliant clarity.
May you like
“Marco!” Alessandro barked, turning toward his enforcer. “Stand down the assault team. Call the Five Families commission. Tell them Don Alessandro Romano requests an emergency tribunal at dawn—and tell the forensic accountants to bring Victor Russo’s blood-soaked books.”
***