Chapter 3 - The Lion’s Den
The Moretti estate sat behind three-inch wrought-iron gates in the wealthy hills overlooking the bay. It was a fortress disguised as a mansion, surrounded by manicured lawns and patrolled by armed guards who thought they were untouchable because their boss owned half the city council.
They didn't account for Vincent Torino.
The iron gates didn't open; they folded inward with a sickening shriek of tortured metal as Vincent’s armored SUV rammed straight through them, sending sparks flying into the night air. Before the guards posted at the guardhouse could even unholster their weapons, Marco and four of Vincent’s elite enforcers poured out of the vehicle, moving with ruthless, silent efficiency.
Within thirty seconds, the front security detail was neutralized, zip-tied, and left shivering in the rain behind the shrubbery.
Vincent walked up the marble steps of the grand entrance. He didn't bother with the doorbell. He raised his right boot and kicked the heavy mahogany double doors squarely in the center. The deadbolt snapped like dry pine, and the doors slammed open against the interior walls with a thunderous crash.
Music was playing softly in the expansive foyer—some classical string quartet that clashed violently with the violence of the entry.
Salvador Moretti emerged from the study at the end of the hall, glass of scotch in hand, his silk bathrobe tied loosely around his waist. His face, usually carved into a permanent, arrogant smirk, dropped into pure shock as he stared down the barrel of Vincent’s pistol.
"V-Vincent?" Salvador stammered, spilling a drop of amber liquid onto his robe. "What the hell is the meaning of this? You broke onto my property—"
Vincent closed the distance between them in three rapid steps, grabbing Salvador by the lapels of his robe and slamming him hard against the oak-paneled wall. The glass of scotch shattered on the floor, sending brown liquid splattering across the Persian rug.
"Where is she?" Vincent demanded, pressing the cold steel of his barrel directly beneath Salvador’s chin.
"What are you talking about? Who?!" Salvador choked out, his eyes wide with genuine, unfeigned terror.
"Elena," Vincent growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. "Your men went to her apartment tonight. They beat her within an inch of her life. And they left something behind."
Vincent reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulled out the silver Moretti cufflink, and shoved it hard against Salvador’s chest.
Salvador stared at the cufflink, and for a split second, confusion flashed across his face—followed immediately by a deep, cold realization.
"Vinnie... listen to me," Salvador rasped, holding up his hands. "I swear to God on my mother's grave, I didn't send anyone to her apartment. My men have been here all night. Ask anyone. Look at the security logs."
Vincent didn't lower the gun. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger right now and take over your entire operation before midnight."
"Because it wasn't me!" Salvador screamed, sweat beading on his forehead. "Think, you idiot! If I wanted Elena dead or if I wanted those manifests, I wouldn't send two clumsy thugs to beat her up while she's getting ready for a date with you. That’s a declaration of open war! Do you think I'm stupid enough to start a war with you over some papers I already know are locked in your safe downtown?!"
Vincent paused. The logic cut through his rage like a cold wind.
Salvador was ruthless, but he wasn't suicidal. Attacking Vincent Torino’s blind date—a woman Vincent had publically stated he was taking out—wasn't just a tactical error; it was suicide.
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"Then who?" Vincent whispered dangerously.
Before Salvador could answer, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the dark hallway above them.
