Chapter 13 - The Patriarch’s Redemption
The heavy oak doors of the private library were splintered inward as if struck by a battering ram.
Inside, the room was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and expensive cigar smoke.
Victor DeMarco stood behind his immense mahogany desk, holding an antique ivory-handled revolver with steady, aged hands.
Standing in the center of the ruined library was a tall, silver-haired man with cold, predatory eyes and a tailored charcoal suit soaked in rain.
Salvatore Moretti smiled, his teeth flashing white against his scarred, weathered jaw.
“It has been twenty-six years, Victor,” Moretti rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones.
“You look like a ghost standing in the ruins of an empire that should have belonged to me.”
Victor did not lower his weapon, though his aged fingers trembled slightly under the immense weight of the revolver.
“You were never worthy of my daughter, Salvatore,” Victor replied, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous whisper.
“That is why she ran from the blood contract on the night of our agreement.”
Moretti chuckled darkly, taking a slow, deliberate step forward across the ruined Persian rug.
“She was a foolish girl who didn't understand the laws of our world,” Moretti said smoothly.
“And you were a weak old man who let sentimentality destroy a binding covenant.”
“Now, the debt must be paid in full.”
“Where is her spawn?”
“Where is the girl carrying the DeMarco bloodline?”
Victor’s grip tightened on the ivory handle of his revolver, his gray eyes flashing with defiant fury.
“You will never touch my granddaughter,” Victor declared, leveling the barrel directly at Moretti’s chest.
“She carries the future of this family, and she will walk out of these ashes long after you are dead.”
Moretti raised his own weapon with effortless speed, his expression hardening into absolute ruthlessness.
“Then you die first, old man,” Moretti spat, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Before Moretti could fire, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the doorway behind him.
“Drop the weapon, Moretti,” a deep, ice-cold voice commanded from the shadows.
May you like
Moretti froze, turning his head slightly to find Ryan standing in the doorway, dual tactical pistols locked squarely on his skull.
Behind Ryan stood Natalie, her eyes burning with fierce, unyielding courage as she held the tactical blade ready.
