Chapter 3 - The Clock Ticks Down
At 9:08 PM, the atmosphere in the hall grew thick with anticipation. The Sicilian shipping magnate tapped his crystal glass with a silver spoon, calling for silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the old man boomed, his voice carrying over the crowd. "A moment of attention for the Don!"
The room fell quiet. The string quartet lowered their bows. Guests turned toward the head table, smiling, holding up their glasses of expensive prosecco.
Across the room, near the exit, Marco Rossi straightened his tie, his hand slipping inside his breast pocket where the remote detonator rested. He caught Sophia’s eye and gave a subtle, sinister nod.
Sophia’s heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Aleandro... what are we going to do? The clock..."
"Trust me, Sophia," Aleandro said quietly, standing up smoothly.
The crowd erupted into applause.
Aleandro raised his glass, smiling warmly at the wealthy mobsters, politicians, and business moguls filling his hall. His presence was commanding, radiating absolute authority.
"Thank you, my friends," Aleandro announced, his deep voice echoing in the grand hall. "Tonight is a night of celebration. A night where two families become one, and where peace is forged in honor."
Beneath the table, unbeknownst to anyone, a small, heavily shielded electronic jammer—disguised as a wine bucket brought in by a butler—was placed right beside Aleandro’s chair.
At 9:14 PM, the tiny red light on the bomb stopped blinking. Its frequency signal was completely dead.
Aleandro locked eyes with Marco Rossi across the room.
Rossi’s smile faltered slightly. He pulled out his phone, disguised as a detonator, and pressed the button hidden in his pocket.
Nothing happened.
Rossi pressed it again. Harder. His brow furrowed in confusion, then panic.
Aleandro took a sip of his wine, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Rossi. "Of course," Aleandro continued into the microphone, "peace requires trust. And trust... must be purged of rats."
A quiet rustle went through the room. Some guests chuckled, thinking it was a mafia joke. Others, the older capos, straightened in their seats, sensing the sudden, sharp shift in the air.
At 9:16 PM, Aleandro’s phone vibrated twice in his pocket. A text message from Matteo:
Boy is safe. Cellar cleared. Coming back now.
May you like
Aleandro set his glass down on the table with a soft, final clink.
"Marco," Aleandro called out over the crowd, his voice dropping its warm host tone, replacing it with pure ice. "You seem stressed. Is your phone not getting a signal?"
