Chapter 10 - Blood Debts and Bitter Truths
Lorenzo Duca did not flinch at Mia’s words, but a vein in his temple throbbed with suppressed fury.
The silence in the grand lobby was so profound that the hum of the fluorescent fixtures sounded like a scream.
Lorenzo turned slowly to his personal aide, a white-haired man who had managed the family records for forty years.
""Take the drive,"" Lorenzo commanded.
""Put it in my private machine.""
""Verify every byte.""
The aide stepped forward, took the drive from Matteo’s outstretched hand, and vanished into the elevator.
Marco Silva took another slow, deliberate step toward the entrance doors.
""Don Lorenzo,"" Marco said, his voice tightening with desperate urgency.
""The Ferretti family has mobilized three tactical vans.""
""They are moving toward our northern properties as we speak.""
""We cannot waste time analyzing fabricated files while our borders are burning.""
""Shut up, Marco,"" Lorenzo said softly.
The tone was quiet, but it carried the absolute finality of a guillotine blade dropping.
Three minutes passed in agonizing stillness.
Mia kept her right hand resting casually inside her jacket pocket, her finger curved around the trigger guard.
She calculated the firing angles between Marco’s guards and Lorenzo’s veterans.
If violence erupted here, the crossfire would turn the glass lobby into a slaughterhouse within five seconds.
The elevator chimed.
The white-haired aide walked out, his face completely drained of color.
He leaned close to Lorenzo’s ear and spoke in a hushed whisper that Mia’s trained ears caught clearly.
""It’s all there, Don Lorenzo.""
""The wire transfers to Cyprus.""
""The surveillance photos Marco provided to Gianni Ferretti.""
""The authorization codes for the catering crew at the gala.""
""Signed with Marco’s personal seal.""
Lorenzo did not shout.
He did not display the explosive temper that the streets feared.
He simply turned his gray eyes toward Marco Silva.
""Twenty-two years, Marco,"" Lorenzo said, the words dripping with ice.
""I gave you my brother's seat at the high table.""
""I paid for your children's medical care in Switzerland.""
""I trusted you with my son's life.""
Marco knew the game was finished.
The submissive posture vanished, replaced by a vicious, venomous snarl.
""You trusted me?"" Marco spat, taking two quick paces backward toward his private squad.
""You killed my brother twenty years ago in that warehouse in Queens, Lorenzo!""
""You called it collateral damage!""
""You called it the cost of doing business!""
""You made me bow to you while you built your empire on the bones of my bloodline!""
""And now you expect me to kneel to your soft, pencil-pushing boy?""
Before Lorenzo’s veterans could raise their weapons, Marco lunged behind a marble column and pulled a detonator from his coat pocket.
""Gianni Ferretti sends his regards, old man!""
Marco slammed the button.
A deafening explosion tore through the basement garage directly beneath the lobby.
The reinforced marble floor buckled upward in a fountain of pulverized stone and fire.
The shockwave threw Lorenzo violently against the security desk.
The plate-glass windows overlooking Fifth Avenue shattered into a million sparkling shards, raining down onto the street.
Automatic gunfire erupted from the street as two black vans skidded to a halt outside the ruined entrance.
Masked shooters in heavy tactical gear spilled out, firing suppressive bursts into the dust-filled lobby.
Marco was already sprinting toward the side emergency exit, covered by the smoke and his personal traitors.
Lorenzo was on the ground, blood streaming down the side of his silver hair, stunned by the blast.
Matteo threw himself across his father’s body to shield him from the flying shrapnel.
A shooter leveled an assault rifle directly at Matteo’s exposed back.
Mia surged through the smoke.
She didn't hesitate.
She lunged forward, kicked the fallen marble planter into the shooter’s path, and fired two rounds into his chest plate before he could adjust his aim.
The man dropped with a heavy thud.
Mia grabbed Matteo by his tuxedo collar, hauling him and his wounded father behind the reinforced mahogany reception barrier.
""Can he walk?"" Mia shouted over the roaring thunder of gunfire.
Matteo checked his father’s pulse, his hands shaking with raw adrenaline.
""He's concussed! The shrapnel caught his thigh!""
Lorenzo blinked through the dust, looking up into Mia’s fierce, soot-streaked face.
""Why are you still here, girl?"" Lorenzo rasped, his voice raw with pain and bewilderment.
Mia slammed a fresh magazine into her pistol with her palm.
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""Because my contract says forty-eight hours, Don Lorenzo.""
""And I still have sixteen hours left on my shift.""
