Chapter 6 - The Iron Handle
The tactical operative's finger tightened on the trigger guard, the black muzzle of his carbine locking onto the center of my chest with absolute, chilling finality.
I didn't move. My fingers were locked around the heavy brass fireplace poker, my muscles coiled like spring steel, waiting for the exact microsecond the hammer dropped. But before the operative could complete his squeeze, a deafening explosion shattered the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows behind Julian Moretti.
Shattered glass rained down like a glittering storm of razor blades.
Julian spun around, his cane clattering against the splintered floorboards as a massive, dark figure vaulted through the broken frame, trailing smoke and rain.
Vincent Moretti hit the floor in a brutal tactical roll, coming up with a Sig Sauer in each hand. Before Julian’s guards could pivot their weapons toward the new threat, Vincent fired twice. The suppressive reports cracked through the bedroom like thunderclaps, blowing out the tactical light rails on both operatives' carbines and sending them stumbling backward into the walls.
“You're trespassing, Uncle,” Vincent growled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that shook the room.
Julian caught his balance, his face draining of its color, though a twisted, manic grin quickly stretched across his thin lips. He didn't look like a terrified old man; he looked like a spider who had just watched his prey walk straight back into the web.
“You always were too sentimental for your own good, Vincent,” Julian spat, stepping back toward the shattered balcony ledge where a rope ladder hung down into the howling storm outside. “You think killing me solves this? The federal indictments are already filed. The bank accounts are locked. Moretti Logistics belongs to the syndicate now.”
“Not quite,” a cool voice echoed from the doorway behind Julian.
Marco stepped over the splintered remnants of the panic door, his Sig Sauer locked dead on Julian’s chest. Flanking him were three local estate security officers carrying riot shields, completely sealing off the hallway exit.
Julian’s eyes darted from Marco to the broken window, calculating his odds in a fraction of a second.
“We’ll finish this in court, Uncle,” Vincent said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes blazing with fury. “Or whatever's left of you after the federal marshals finish sorting through your offshore ledgers.”
Julian laughed, a raspy, echoing sound over the roar of the rain. “You think the law can touch what’s already set in motion, boy? Look at your daughter. Look at what she's holding.”
May you like
Vincent froze.
From beneath the dust ruffle of the king-size bed, a small hand slid out, clutching not just the micro-cassette tape, but a heavy, old-fashioned iron skeleton key that Isabella had dragged out from the false floor of the music box.
