Chapter 8 - Hostage to Greed
The name *Bertolli* fell into the room like a lit match dropped into a pool of gasoline.
Hannah didn't know the intricate geopolitical treaties of the American underworld, but even she knew the Bertolli name. They were the dominant syndicate across the eastern seaboard—brutal, corporate, and relentlessly aggressive. For ten years, the Moretti family had held the midwest transit corridor as a neutral wall, preventing the Bertollis from linking their Atlantic shipping routes with the rail hubs in Omaha and Kansas City.
“She was playing three sides,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly cold register. “The feds were her insurance policy. The Bellini family was her leverage. But the Bertollis were the buyers.”
Gabe nodded grimly. “If the Bertollis got the audio feeds from your private conference room, they would have had the exact deployment schedules for every Moretti shipment between here and the Canadian border. They could have hijacked forty million dollars in raw materials without firing a shot, and made it look like federal seizures.”
Luca stood up, his eyes flashing with lethal clarity. “Where is the secondary receiver?”
“It’s not in the house,” Gabe said, tapping his tablet. “The frequency is long-range UHF. It’s transmitting to a relay tower situated somewhere within a two-mile radius. Probably a mobile intercept vehicle.”
Luca’s phone buzzed sharply on the desk blotter.
He looked down at the screen. The incoming number was unlisted, routing through an encrypted VoIP switchboard.
Luca hit the speaker button. “Speak.”
“Don Moretti,” a smooth, accented voice purred through the high-definition speaker. “I trust the breakfast was satisfactory?”
Hannah recognized the voice. It was Alessandro Bertolli, the youngest son of the New York Don, a man who had visited the Moretti estate once during the funeral of Luca’s father—polite, exquisitely tailored, and utterly devoid of human conscience.
“You’re trespassing on Moretti territory, Alessandro,” Luca said flatly.
“A technicality, Luca,” Alessandro laughed softly. “Vanessa was such an ambitious little creature. So desperate to be something more than a regional boss’s daughter. She sold us the frequency keys three months ago for six million in Swiss bearer bonds. We’ve been listening to your little family drama all morning.”
Luca didn't flinch. “If you’ve been listening, you know she’s in a holding cell, her father is on his way to Sicily, and the wires have been pulled.”
“Yes, which brings us to an unfortunate impasse,” Alessandro replied, his tone turning crisp and businesslike. “The listening post is dead, but our investment remains unfulfilled. However, Vanessa provided us with an interesting backup plan before she lost her nerve last night.”
A cold fist closed around Hannah’s stomach.
“What backup plan?” Luca asked.
“Your new little Director of Operations,” Alessandro said smoothly. “Hannah Sullivan. A very touching story, really. The single mother standing up to the cruel fiancée. Very cinematic. But you see, Luca, while Matteo was busy escorting the grandmother and the infant from that charming little tenement on South Halsted last night, my people took the liberty of securing the other occupants of the building.”
Hannah gasped, jumping out of her chair, her hand flying to her mouth.
“My sister,” Hannah choked out, the room spinning around her. “My sister Clara lives on the third floor!”
“Ah, the young woman with the art school portfolio,” Alessandro murmured over the speaker. “She’s currently sitting in the back of an unmarked delivery van parked three blocks from the port authority docks on the south branch. She’s quite terrified, Luca. You know how delicate art students can be.”
Luca’s hand clamped down on the edge of the mahogany desk, his knuckles turning dead white. “If you harm that girl, Alessandro, I will not stop until every Bertolli warehouse from Boston to Miami is ash.”
“Then let’s not be dramatic, Luca,” Alessandro said, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp command. “You want Clara Sullivan returned with all ten fingers? You will download the logistical rail manifests for the October freight corridor onto an encrypted flash drive. You will bring them to the South Slip terminal at the Calumet docks yourself. No Matteo. No sniper teams. Just you, the drive, and a very quiet exchange.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then the girl goes into the canal with forty pounds of industrial scrap wired to her ankles, and we begin executing your domestic staff’s families one by one until you remember who controls the Atlantic coast. You have ninety minutes, Don Moretti.”
The line went dead.
Hannah fell to her knees beside the desk, clutching Leo against her chest so hard the baby let out a sharp cry. “Clara... oh God, Clara! She’s nineteen, Luca! She doesn't know anything about this! She was just watching my cat!”
Luca moved around the desk with shocking speed. He didn't tower over her. He dropped down on one knee, his broad hand coming to rest on her trembling shoulder with a warmth and stability that cut through the blinding panic.
“Look at me, Hannah,” Luca commanded, his voice deep, firm, and absolute.
Hannah looked up, her vision swimming with tears.
“I give you my word as a Moretti,” Luca said, his dark eyes boring into hers with an intensity that burned away the fear. “Your sister will be back in this room before lunch. Not a hair on her head will be touched.”
“He said no backup,” Hannah wept. “He said you have to go alone!”
May you like
Luca stood up, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a heavy, matte-black custom Kimber .45, checking the magazine with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist.
“In my city,” Luca whispered, “I am never alone.”
