Chapter 9 - The Fall of the Romanos
My mother survived the night.
The bullet had missed her vital organs, but she was in a medically induced coma in the estate’s private hospital wing.
I sat by her bed, holding her hand.
Alejandro came to see us at dawn.
He wore a black tactical suit. He looked like the grim reaper.
“She’s stable,” he told me softly, stroking my hair. “She’s going to wake up soon.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To make sure we never have to run again.”
That day, the city trembled.
Alejandro Moretti didn't just strike back; he annihilated his enemies.
He coordinated a simultaneous strike on every Romano stronghold in the city.
Warehouses were burned. Corrupt politicians on their payroll were exposed.
And the head of the Romano family, the man who ordered the hit on a four-year-old girl, was cornered in his own penthouse.
Rumor has it that Alejandro didn't use a gun.
He walked into the room, slammed a vial of the exact same poison they had used on him onto the desk, and gave the man a choice.
By sunset, the Romano syndicate ceased to exist.
The war was over.
It was absolute, terrifying victory.
But when Alejandro returned to the mansion that night, he didn't celebrate with his men.
He washed the blood and dirt from his hands, put on a clean shirt, and walked into the hospital wing.
My mother’s eyes were open.
She was weak, but she smiled when he entered.
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Alejandro fell to his knees beside her bed.
The most feared man in the city buried his face in her hands and wept.
