Chapter 9 - The Crimson Call
The secure line on Aleandro Moretti’s mahogany desk buzzed with a sharp, insistent red light. Aleandro didn't wait for the second ring; he grabbed the heavy encrypted handset, his face carved from ice.
"Report," Aleandro ordered, his voice dangerously low.
"Boss, we've got a Code Red at the Long Island aviation hangar," Salvatore’s voice crackled through the encrypted speaker, punctuated by the faint, distant pop of automatic gunfire. "Russian syndicate hit squad. They intercepted the flight plan for the medical transport. They were aiming for the helicopter, thinking you were on board."
Aleandro stood up so fast his leather chair crashed against the oak bookshelves behind him. A dark, murderous fury erupted in his dark eyes—a rage so intense it felt as though the temperature in the private study dropped ten degrees. "Are Elena and the child safe?"
"They're inside the cabin," Salvatore panted, ducking behind the landing gear as another volley of bullets struck the hangar siding. "The medical team is prepped, but we're pinned down. They brought a heavy caliber rifle, boss. We can't take off without exposing the cockpit to a direct hit."
"Hold your position," Aleandro commanded, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Do not let them scratch that child. If a single hair on that little girl's head is harmed, I want every safehouse, every shipping lane, and every front business belonging to the Russian Bratva in Queens and Brooklyn burned to ash before midnight. Do you copy?"
"Copy that, boss," Salvatore replied grimly. "We're returning fire now."
Aleandro slammed the handset down onto its cradle. He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a custom-engraved Sig Sauer P226 and two spare magazines, strapping them into his shoulder holster with cold, ruthless precision. For twenty years, he had kept his distance from the bloody street wars, letting his captains handle the dirty work while he operated as a legitimate businessman and syndicate chairman. But the moment someone targeted his blood—the moment someone threatened his sister's child—the polite, untouchable CEO of the Moretti empire vanished, replaced by the ghost of the ruthless underworld king who had conquered New York in blood and fire.
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He grabbed his long wool coat off the rack, striding toward the private elevator that led straight down to the underground motor pool. As the heavy steel doors slid shut, sealing him inside, Aleandro whispered into the empty air, his voice a chilling promise of total destruction: "You wanted a war with the Morettis? You just got one."
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