Chapter 7 - Bloodlines of the Southern Groves
The carbon-fiber interceptor sliced through the raging Mediterranean swells at forty-five knots, cutting around the northern tip of Cape Corse toward the Gulf of Saint-Florent. Inside the enclosed tactical wheelhouse, the only illumination was the red ambient glow of radar screens and navigation instruments.
Matteo and three elite Moreau operators checked their suppressed carbines, loaded specialized breaching rounds, and secured thermal imaging goggles to their helmets.
In the corner of the cabin, seventy-nine-year-old Tonio Rossi sat on a bench, methodically wiping down his wooden walking stick with an oily rag.
I sat beside him, the compact Glock resting in my lap, my knuckles white as I stared out into the black, churning sea.
Dominic walked over, carrying two steaming metal mugs of dark black coffee laced with citrus honey. He handed one to Tonio, then sat beside me, offering the second mug.
“Drink this, Sylvie,” Dominic said gently. “You need warmth.”
I took the mug with shaking hands, sipping the bitter, hot liquid. The honey soothed my burning throat, but nothing could thaw the icy terror clutched around my heart.
“How did Henri take the Citadel of Saint-Florent?” I asked softly. “Isn't that a historic landmark owned by the regional maritime authority?”
“The De Winter family purchased the western promontory fifty years ago under an anonymous Swiss heritage trust,” Tonio answered, his raspy voice cutting through the hum of the twin outboards. “During the Second World War, Henri’s father used those subterranean ammunition magazines to smuggle contraband for the occupying forces. It is a stone fortress built into sheer limestone cliffs. An impenetrable redoubt.”
“Nothing is impenetrable, Uncle,” Dominic said, his voice flat and lethal as a drawn blade. “My mother’s family originally held the deed to Saint-Florent before the De Winter clan forged the municipal registries in 1974.”
Dominic reached into his breast pocket and produced an antique silver pocket watch. He snapped the case open, revealing a faded black-and-white photograph of a young woman with dark, radiant curls standing beneath a blooming orange tree, holding an infant Dominic in her arms.
Donna Isabella Moreau.
“My mother was not just an auditor, Sylvie,” Dominic said, his eyes softening as he looked upon the portrait. “She was the rightful heiress to the Southern Groves of Corsica—the agricultural heartland that feeds this entire island. When Henri poisoned her trees and poisoned her lungs, he didn't just commit murder. He stole the inheritance of our people.”
Dominic closed the watch with a sharp click, turning his gaze toward me.
“Your family, Sylvie... your grandfather was Jean Laurent, wasn't he?”
I blinked in surprise, looking up at him. “Yes. My grandfather was a dockworker in Ajaccio. He died before I was born.”
Tonio let out a soft, astonished chuckle, shaking his silver head. “Jean Laurent was not just a dockworker, little one. Jean was Donna Isabella’s chief logistics captain. When Henri attempted his first coup against the Moreau estate thirty years ago, your grandfather took two bullets to the shoulder to smuggle Isabella and infant Dominic out of the burning villa in Bonifacio.”
My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt.
“My grandfather saved your life?” I whispered, staring at Dominic in utter disbelief.
“He did,” Dominic replied softly, his large hand gently covering mine on the bench. “Jean Laurent gave his blood so that I could live. And for twenty years, the De Winter syndicate blacklisted your family from the shipping unions, forced your parents into poverty, and poisoned your sister with adulterated medication to keep your bloodline from ever rising again.”
The realization hit me with the force of an avalanche.
I was not just an accidental pantry maid caught in a syndicate dispute. My family had stood alongside the Moreau dynasty for generations, bleeding in the same shadows, targeted by the same ruthless vipers.
The fear that had paralyzed me evaporated completely. In its place rose an ancient, ancestral fire—a righteous fury passed down from my grandfather and Donna Isabella, demanding justice.
I picked up the Glock, checking the chamber with a crisp, confident snap.
“We don't negotiate at Saint-Florent, Dominic,” I said, looking straight into his obsidian eyes. “We take back our home.”
Dominic stared at me, a look of profound, breathtaking adoration burning across his rugged features.
May you like
“Matteo,” Dominic roared, rising to his full, imposing height. “Arm the breaching torpedoes. We hit the water gates in ten minutes.”
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