Chapter 7 - Confrontation in the Concrete
The fourth-floor corridor smelled of ozone, cordite, and peeling wallpaper.
I stepped over the wounded security contractor groaning on the floor.
I kicked his dropped firearm down the elevator shaft through the cracked maintenance doors.
Footsteps hurried up the concrete stairs.
Three men.
Nico was behind them, his expensive Italian leather shoes clicking impatiently against the stone.
“Move in!” Nico barked from below. “There's only one way down! Matteo won't shoot to kill, he’s too soft for the bloodline!”
He had mistaken my restraint for weakness.
For six years, I had run a legitimate corporate empire while Nico played with private military toys on my payroll.
He had forgotten who taught him how to hold a weapon.
The first contractor crested the landing, sweeping his assault rifle toward the corridor.
I caught his barrel with my left forearm, redirecting the muzzle into the plaster ceiling as a burst of automatic fire tore through the light fixtures.
Darkness fell over the stairwell, illuminated only by the strobing amber streetlights from outside.
I drove the heel of my palm into the man’s chin.
Bone cracked.
He tumbled backward down the steps, knocking the second man off balance.
I descended like an avalanche.
I fired two shots into the shoulder of the second operative, dropping him onto the third landing.
Before he could recover, I kicked his weapon over the banister.
It clattered all the way down to the ground floor.
Silence returned.
Heavy, breathing silence.
Only one man remained on the lower flight of stairs.
Nico.
He was backed against the green cinderblock wall of the second-floor landing, his tailored coat disheveled, a chrome-plated revolver shaking in his right hand.
“Stay back, Matteo!” he shrieked, the veneer of aristocratic composure completely gone.
“You don't know what you're protecting! That girl isn't a Caruso! She's a curse!”
I walked down the concrete steps slowly, my boots clicking with rhythmic, terrifying precision.
My gun was lowered at my side.
I didn't need it.
The look in my eyes was enough to make Nico press his back harder against the cold brick until he had nowhere left to run.
“You forged my messages,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You sent her away to starve.”
“She was a whore from a piano bar!” Nico screamed, his voice cracking.
“She had no right to our name! My mother spent thirty years serving your father! Thirty years keeping the family secrets while your mother drank herself to death in the guest wing! And what did we get? Five percent of the dividends!”
“You had fifty million dollars in private trusts, Nico.”
“It wasn't enough!” he spat, spittle flying from his lips.
“The empire belonged to the direct line! If Clara’s child was legitimized, my mother would have been completely cut out of the primary board seats! Giancarlo wrote an amendment before he died! An amendment stating that if an illegitimate heir of Clara’s line presented herself, Beatrice’s entire branch would be stripped of executive power!”
I stopped two feet in front of him.
The barrel of his chrome revolver was pointing directly at my chest.
His hand was shaking so badly the metal rattled against his cuff links.
“Put the gun down, Nico.”
“I’ll shoot you, Matteo! I swear to God I’ll put a bullet through your heart and tell the board Sal went rogue!”
“You won't shoot,” I said quietly.
“Because you're a coward who hires other men to threaten pregnant women in lobbies.”
I stepped forward.
I pressed my chest directly against the muzzle of his gun.
“Pull the trigger,” I whispered.
Nico’s eyes dilated in pure terror.
His finger tightened on the trigger, then went limp.
He couldn't do it.
He had spent his life living in my shadow, spending my money, hiding behind my authority.
I reached out, wrapped my fingers around the cylinder of the revolver, and twisted it sharply out of his grip.
Bone popped in his wrist.
He cried out, dropping to his knees on the concrete landing.
I ejected the cylinder, caught the six heavy rounds in my palm, and tossed the empty weapon down the stairwell.
Then I grabbed Nico by the lapels of his three-thousand-dollar jacket and slammed him against the wall.
“Where is Beatrice?” I demanded.
Nico smiled through his tears, a bloody, desperate smirk.
“It doesn't matter where she is, Matteo. Because while you were playing hero in this slum, she was at the central records office with the original trust documents.”
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He coughed, blood speckling his white shirt.
“Sophie Voss doesn't exist on paper. And in two hours, neither will Elena.”
