Chapter 7 - THE KILL BOX
The greenhouse corridor of Moretti Manor was a breathtaking architectural marvel—a hundred-foot glass-roofed tunnel connecting the main residential wing to the indoor swimming pool, filled with towering exotic ferns, orchids, and hanging ivy.
Tonight, under the shroud of a blinding snowstorm, it became a tomb.
Six heavily armed assassins dressed head-to-toe in matte black tactical gear moved silently through the glass corridor, their rubber-soled boots making no sound on the stone flagstones. Their leader, a scarred mercenary named Dante who had taken over the remnants of the internal council’s strike force, raised a gloved hand to signal a halt.
“Target is in the main study,” Dante whispered into his tactical comms unit. “Eliminate all staff, secure the women as leverage, and put a bullet in Moretti’s head.”
They took three steps forward.
Clack.
The heavy steel security shutters at both ends of the greenhouse corridor dropped simultaneously with the sound of falling guillotine blades, sealing the glass tube off from the rest of the mansion.
Dante froze. “Ambush! Retreat—!”
Before the word could finish forming on his lips, the high-intensity overhead grow-lights in the greenhouse clicked off, plunging the jungle-like corridor into pitch blackness, illuminated only by the faint, ghostly glow of the falling snow outside the glass roof.
From the shadows near the fern wall, a single shot cracked through the freezing air with the sharp, deafening authority of a thunderclap.
Bang.
The assassin walking at the rear of the formation dropped instantly, a clean round through his tactical helmet.
“Spread out! Find cover!” Dante roared, diving behind a massive marble planter overflowing with giant ferns.
Shadows moved through the dense foliage with terrifying, predatory grace. Alessandro Moretti didn’t shout warnings. He didn’t negotiate. He moved like a ghost through his own home, a man defending his sanctuary with cold, calculated extermination.
Bang. Bang.
Two more assassins crumpled to the stone floor, their suppressed weapons clattering uselessly against the flagstones.
Dante panted heavily, pressing his back against the marble pillar, his heart hammering against his ribs. He raised his submachine gun, sweeping the darkness blindly.
“Moretti! You think you can hide behind your maids and your bastards?!” Dante screamed into the empty air. “The syndicate is finished with you! The council wants your head!”
“The council,” a cold, velvety voice whispered directly behind Dante’s ear, “is currently experiencing a terminal reduction in membership.”
Dante whipped around, terror seizing his throat, but before he could pull his trigger, the butt of Alessandro’s Sig Sauer crashed down across his temple with bone-shattering force.
Dante’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed unconscious onto the snowy flagstones.
Silence descended upon the greenhouse corridor once more, broken only by the gentle patter of snowflakes hitting the glass roof overhead.
Alessandro stood tall amidst the ferns, his breathing steady, his cashmere sweater untouched. He holstered his pistol, pulled out his encrypted phone, and pressed speed dial.
“Viktor,” Alessandro said quietly.
“Boss? Status?” Viktor’s voice crackled over the line.
“Corridor is clear. Clean up the trash,” Alessandro commanded. “And notify the rest of the capos that the internal restructuring is officially complete. Anyone else wearing a snake ring gets buried in the New Jersey marshes before breakfast.”
“Consider it done, Boss.”
May you like
Alessandro hung up, walked over to the shattered remains of a terracotta flower pot, brushed a speck of dirt off his sleeve, and turned toward the family wing.
It was time to go home.
