Chapter 33 - A HOUSE DIVIDED
The sound of four assault rifles cocking in unison echoed off the marble walls. Salvatore’s four European bodyguards took half a step forward, their weapons snapping up, aiming directly at Vincent’s chest. In response, Marco and Leo on the staircase racked the slides of their MP5s.
A standoff. One twitch of a finger, and the grand hall would turn into a slaughterhouse.
Yet Salvatore didn't even blink. He stared down the barrel of Vincent’s gun with cold, detached curiosity, as if he were inspecting a curious piece of silverware.
“Go ahead, boy,” Salvatore whispered, his voice sickeningly calm. “Pull the trigger. Paint your mother’s foyer with my brains. But before my body hits the floor, you should ask yourself why your communications network went dark five minutes before my car reached the gate.”
Elena immediately pulled her phone from her pocket. Her face blanched. “Vincent... he’s right. The satellite relays are completely severed. We have no uplink to the docks. No uplink to the safe houses in Queens.”
“Did you really believe the five families were loyal to you, Vincent?” Salvatore mocked softly. “They bowed to you because they feared the Sterling vacuum. But I spent the last three months reminding them who gave them their territories in the eighties. Outside those iron gates, three captains from the Brooklyn faction are parked on the shoulder, waiting for my signal. If I don't walk out of here alive, this entire estate will be leveled with anti-tank munitions before sunset.”
Vincent’s jaw muscles twitched, but he did not lower the gun. “You’re bluffing. The Brooklyn captains wouldn't dare break the armistice.”
“Call them,” Salvatore whispered. “Oh, wait. You can’t.”
The psychological warfare was suffocating. Salvatore wasn't just fighting with bullets; he was dismantling Vincent’s authority layer by layer, exposing the cracks in an empire that had barely had twenty-four hours to heal from the previous war.
Elena stepped up beside Vincent. Her hand rested gently on his shooting arm, not pulling it down, but anchoring him. “Vincent,” she said softly, her voice steady enough to cut through the panic. “Don't give him what he wants. He wants you to shoot him so the Council can declare you a patricide and an outlaw. It’s the ancient Moretti law: whoever sheds the father’s blood forfeits the crown.”
Salvatore’s thin smile widened. “Smart girl. Perhaps I should have married you instead of letting Vincent keep you as a pet.”
Elena didn't take the bait. She locked eyes with Salvatore. “You came here under the white flag of parley, Salvatore. If you wanted a bloodbath, you would have fired through the windows before stepping foot inside. You need the girl alive. You need Hope’s blood sample to clear the biometric scan. Which means as long as she is out of your reach, you have zero leverage.”
Salvatore tilted his head, acknowledging the blow. “A fair assessment. Which is why I am proposing a temporary truce. A family council. Tonight.”
“There is no family left,” Vincent snapped, though he slowly, reluctantly lowered the pistol an inch.
“There is the bloodline,” Salvatore corrected. “We dine together at eight o'clock in the formal dining room. We discuss the distribution of the North Atlantic Trust. If we come to an agreement, I take my share, I retire permanently to South America, and the Moretti syndicate remains entirely in your hands, Vincent. No war. No territorial bloodshed.”
“And if we refuse?” Vincent asked.
Salvatore’s grey eyes turned black as midnight. “Then the men waiting in the treeline will turn this house into a funeral pyre, and I will pull the child from the ashes myself.”
He turned around, his long wool coat billowing behind him like a funeral shroud. “Eight o’clock, Vincent. Set a place for your father.”
Without waiting for an answer, Salvatore walked out the front doors, flanked by his guards. The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind them.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Vincent stood frozen in the center of the hall, his chest heaving with silent fury. Then, with a roar of pure rage, he spun around and fired three rounds into the grand oil portrait of his father that hung above the fireplace, shredding Salvatore’s painted face into strips of ruined canvas.
“Marco!” Vincent shouted, his voice hoarse. “Lock the blast shutters on all first-floor windows! Scramble the local radio frequencies! Elena, get Sarah out of the alcove.”
Elena was already running toward the library. The false panel slid back, and I tumbled out, clinging to Hope so hard the baby let out a sharp cry. Elena wrapped her arms around both of us, her body shaking with an adrenaline rush she could no longer suppress.
“He knows about Hope,” I cried, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. “Elena, he knows she’s the key. Daniel didn't leave her an inheritance... he made her a target!”
Vincent walked into the library, his smoking gun still clutched in his hand. He knelt down in front of me, his harsh, terrifying features softening just enough for me to see the desperate protector underneath.
“Daniel didn't betray you, Sarah,” Vincent said, his voice raw. “He tied the trust to Hope so that Salvatore couldn't access his stolen empire without providing for your daughter’s entire future. Daniel thought it was an insurance policy. He didn't realize Salvatore would crawl back from the dead to cash it.”
May you like
“What are we going to do?” I pleaded, looking between them. “He’s going to take her.”
“He will have to tear my heart out of my chest first,” Vincent vowed, reaching out with a trembling hand to touch Hope’s soft cheek. “Tonight at dinner, we don't negotiate. Tonight, we set a trap.”
