Chapter 5 - The Geneva Strongbox
The revelation hung in the air like a poisonous fog.
Lorenzo slowly picked up the photograph from the strongbox, his eyes scanning
the faces of his cousin, Don Vance of Atlanta, and Agent Marcus Cole.
“The wake,” Lorenzo whispered, his silver eyes flashing with sudden, terrible
clarity. “The Capos from New York. The five families gathered in the grand
parlor.”
“They aren't there to mourn me, Lorenzo,” Donna Maria said, her chest heaving as
she struggled for breath. “Bianca invited them under the guise of an emergency
succession council. Don Vance’s strike teams are already staged in the bayou.
They are waiting for the storm to peak at midnight.”
“To do what, Donna Maria?” I asked, unable to contain the horror creeping up my
spine.
The old woman looked at me, her eyes filled with forty years of hardened
survival. “At midnight, the federal agents will raid the plantation under the
authority of an emergency maritime RICO warrant. But Vance’s men will hit the
house first. They will execute Lorenzo and every loyal capo in the parlor, plant
the forged Geneva transfer papers on his body, and declare Bianca the sole
surviving heir to the Moretti empire.”
“And the feds?” Lorenzo asked, his voice deadly quiet.
“Cole will cover up the slaughter as an internal syndicate turf war,” Donna
Maria rasped. “Bianca gets the offshore accounts. Vance gets the Port of New
Orleans. And Cole gets a promotion to the federal directorship in Washington.”
Lorenzo picked up the audio recorder from the box. He pressed play.
A static-laced recording echoed through the vehicle. It was Bianca’s voice,
sharp, cold, and arrogant, speaking to Don Vance three months ago:
“...Lorenzo is too cautious. He refuses to move the fentanyl shipments through
the river docks because of his mother’s antiquated moral code. Once Maria is in
the ground, Lorenzo will be blinded by grief. We hit them during the wake.
Thirty minutes of gunfire, and the entire Gulf Coast belongs to us...”
Lorenzo stopped the tape.
He didn't scream. He didn't curse. He simply closed the calfskin ledger, snapped
the lock on the strongbox shut, and turned to Matteo in the front passenger
seat.
“Matteo.”
“Boss?”
“How many of our men are currently inside the plantation manor?”
“Thirty loyal soldiers, boss. Plus the twenty visiting capos from the allied
families.”
“And the external perimeter?”
Matteo checked his tactical tablet. “The perimeter sensors around the south
ridge went dark ten minutes ago. We thought it was storm damage from fallen
cypress branches.”
“It’s not storm damage,” Lorenzo said. “Vance’s assault teams are already
cutting the fence lines.”
He glanced at his watch.
It was 11:15 PM.
Forty-five minutes until the scheduled execution.
“Turn the truck around,” Lorenzo commanded.
Dr. Harris gasped. “Mr. Moretti, your mother cannot survive being taken back
into an active combat zone! Her vitals are barely stabilizing!”
Lorenzo turned his gaze to the doctor, his eyes unyielding as iron. “If we go to
the French Quarter hospital, Vance’s corrupt federal agents will seize my mother
before the sun rises. The only place on this earth where Donna Maria Moretti is
safe is behind my guns.”
He turned to look at me. “Evelyn.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Can you fire a weapon?”
I swallowed hard, looking down at Baron, who had lifted his head from the floor,
his ears perked toward the sound of Lorenzo’s voice.
“My father was a marine before he was a gambler,” I said, meeting Lorenzo’s gaze
without flinching. “He taught me how to shoot a twelve-gauge shotgun and a
service pistol when I was fourteen.”
A faint, dangerous ghost of a smile touched the corner of Lorenzo Moretti’s
lips.
He reached beneath his seat, pulled out a custom matte-black Sig Sauer 9mm
pistol, checked the chamber with a crisp mechanical snap, and held it out to me
handle-first.
May you like
“Take it,” Lorenzo said. “Tonight, Evelyn Cross, you don't scrub floors.
Tonight, you defend the throne.”
