Chapter 3 - The Vault Beneath the Stone
The wine cellar beneath the Moretti estate was built of twelve-inch thick granite blocks, reinforced with steel beams during the mob wars of the late eighties. The air down here was cold, damp, and heavy with the scent of aged oak, dust, and old wine.
At the far end of the long vaulted room, behind a heavy iron door, lay the inner interrogation room.
Carlo Ricci sat tied to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the concrete floor. His silk jacket was torn at the shoulder, his hair disheveled, but his face carried no panic. Instead, an arrogant, bitter smile touched his lips.
Marco stood by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, two armed guards flanking the threshold.
Alessandro stepped into the yellow glare of the single overhead bulb. He dragged a second wooden chair across the floor, the legs screeching against the concrete, and sat down three feet in front of his former advisor.
For a long moment, neither man spoke. The only sound was the faint drip of water somewhere in the stone walls.
"Fifteen years, Carlo," Alessandro said softly, his voice echoing in the underground vault. "My father trusted you. I trusted you."
Carlo chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that turned into a dark laugh.
"Your father was a fool, Alessandro," Carlo spat, his refined demeanor evaporating completely. "And you are just like him. Blinded by your own pride, sitting on top of a mountain of money, thinking forty guards and stone walls make you immortal."
"Why?" Alessandro asked. He did not raise his voice. He didn't show anger. His composure was more terrifying than any outburst. "Was it the Sabatini family? Or the Costas?"
Carlo leaned forward as far as his leather bindings would allow, his eyes glittering with decades of hidden resentment.
"It was neither," Carlo snarled. "It was me. I built this empire, Alessandro! I managed your money, I paid off your judges, I buried your bodies! Yet every time a decision was made, it was a Moretti who took the credit! Your father treated me like a glorified servant! And you... you looked at me the same way!"
Alessandro reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver pocket watch. He opened the latch, letting the soft, steady ticking fill the cold air between them.
"The girl heard you," Alessandro murmured. "You said the clock runs out at nine tonight. What happens at nine, Carlo?"
Carlo’s eyes widened slightly when Alessandro mentioned the girl, but he quickly recovered, sneering at the watch.
"You think you caught it all because a maid's brat babbled in your ear?" Carlo sneered. "It's already over, Alessandro! At nine o'clock, the federal task force sweeps the estate with an illegal weapons warrant supplied by Judge Harrison's son—the same boy I've been feeding evidence to for six months. At the same time, thirty armed men from the Northern Alliance take the waterfront docks. You are surrounded. You are finished."
Marco took a step forward, his hand tightening around the grip of his pistol, but Alessandro raised a hand to hold him back.
Alessandro looked down at the watch in his palm.
"You spent fifteen years planning my fall, Carlo," Alessandro said quietly. "But you made one fatal mistake."
Carlo frowned. "What mistake?"
"You forgot that I don't care about the money. I don't care about the estate. And I certainly don't care about the throne."
Alessandro stood up. He placed the silver watch on the small table beside Carlo's chair.
"Marco," Alessandro said, walking toward the door.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Cancel the waterfront shipments. Move all digital records to the offshore server in Zurich. Tell the perimeter guards to fall back to the inner gate house."
Carlo’s face turned pale. "What are you doing?! The federals will search every inch of this house! They'll find the armory beneath the cellar!"
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Alessandro paused at the heavy iron door, looking back over his shoulder with eyes as cold as grave dirt.
"There won't be an armory beneath the cellar when they arrive, Carlo," Alessandro said smoothly. "And there won't be a house either."
