Chapter 7 - The Siege of Geneva Compound
The air in the sub-basement smelled of ozone, bleach, and rubbing alcohol.
A long, narrow corridor stretched out before me, lit by humming fluorescent tube lights. At the far end stood a heavy reinforced steel door with a small wired-glass window.
Through the glass, I saw two figures.
Dominic Moretti—a thin, oily twenty-eight-year-old wearing a blood-stained white silk shirt—was standing near a hospital bed, holding a nickel-plated 9mm pistol to the temple of a woman.
The woman was thin, pale, and wearing a simple gray hospital gown. Her dark hair was long and tangled, falling over her shoulders.
Alina.
My wife.
Six years. Six long, painful, agonizing years of searching, grieving, and bleeding.
And there she was, five feet away, her dark eyes looking through the wired glass, locking directly onto mine.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry out in fear.
When her eyes met mine, a soft, beautiful, heartbroken smile touched her pale lips.
“Marco...” she whispered through the heavy glass door.
“BACK UP, VITELLI!” Dominic Moretti screamed, his hands shaking violently as he pressed the gun deeper into Alina’s temple. “I SWEAR TO GOD, I’LL PUT A BULLET THROUGH HER BRAIN BEFORE YOU EVEN TOUCH THE HANDLE!”
I stopped three feet from the door.
I lowered my assault rifle, letting it hang from its tactical sling against my chest. I raised both of my hands slowly into the air.
“Dominic,” I said, my voice dropping into a tone so soft, so calm, that it caught the young mobster off guard. “Look at me.”
Dominic glared at me through the glass, sweat pouring down his forehead. “You think you’re invincible, Marco?! My father runs New York! If you kill me, the Moretti family will bring five hundred men to Chicago!”
“Your father doesn't care about you, Dominic,” I said softly, stepping one inch closer to the door. “Carmine sent you to Illinois because you’re a weak, pathetic coward who couldn't handle the family business in Manhattan. He used you as a warden for my wife because he knew if I found out, you’d be the one taking the bullet, not him.”
Dominic’s eyes flickered with a brief moment of doubt. “Shut up! SHUT UP!”
“You have a choice right now, son,” I continued, my dark eyes boring into his soul. “You drop that gun, unlock this door, and walk out of this house on your knees. I’ll let you take a train back to your father in New York with a message.”
“What... what message?” Dominic stammered, his finger trembling on the trigger.
“Tell him that Marco Vitelli has his wife back,” I whispered. “And if I ever see a Moretti soldier west of the Indiana border again, I’ll burn Manhattan to the ground.”
Dominic swallowed hard. His eyes darted from Alina’s pale face to my cold, unblinking glare.
For three agonized seconds, the fate of two empires hung by a single thread.
Then, greed and fear won.
Dominic’s jaw hardened. “No. My father said she’s worth two hundred million. I’m taking my money—!”
Before his thumb could thumb the hammer back, I reached into my left sleeve.
SWISH!
A five-inch Italian steel throw-blade—a gift from my father when I turned eighteen—flashed through the small food-slot at the bottom of the steel door.
The blade buried itself three inches deep into Dominic Moretti’s right wrist.
“AAAGHH!” Dominic screamed, dropping the nickel-plated pistol onto the concrete floor as blood spurted from his severed artery.
I didn't wait.
I threw my heavy body against the steel door, slamming my shoulder into the frame once, twice, three times until the electronic lock sheared off with a loud CRUNCH.
The door flew open.
I stepped into the room, grabbed Dominic Moretti by his hair, pulled his head back, and slammed his face into the sharp edge of the metal medical cart. He dropped like a sack of bricks, unconscious on the bloody floor.
I turned around.
Alina was sitting on the edge of the bed, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks.
I fell to my knees in front of her, throwing my rifle aside, and wrapped my massive arms around her frail shoulders, pulling her flush against my chest.
“Marco...” she sobbed, burying her face into the crook of my neck, her small hands clutching the lapels of my tactical vest as if she were a drowning woman holding onto a lifesaver. “Marco... oh God... you came... you came for me...”
“I’m here, baby,” I choked out, tears finally breaking past my resolve, scalding my cheeks as I kissed her forehead, her hair, her lips. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“Sophia...” she whimpered, pulling back to look at me with desperate eyes. “Is she—?”
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“She’s safe, Alina,” I smiled through my tears, gently cupping her cheeks with my rough hands. “She’s at home. She’s seven years old now. She has your eyes. And she told me she remembers your lullaby.”
Alina let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, collapsing back into my arms as the thunder of the storm outside faded into quiet, peaceful rain.
