Chapter 2 - The Voice on the Microchip
The dining room descended into a silence so profound that the only sound was the
howling of the gale against the glass and the frantic, shallow breaths escaping
Giselle Fontaine’s throat.
Cassian did not shout. He did not draw his sidearm. He bent down with
deliberate, agonizing slowness, picked up the shattered base of the walnut box,
and extracted a tiny black microchip lodged beneath the brass mechanical
cylinder.
He turned toward his underboss, Marcus Rossi.
Marcus was forty-two, a trusted lieutenant who had stood at Cassian’s right hand
for twelve years, through three gang wars and the brutal reconstruction of their
territory. He stood near the head of the table, dressed in a sharp charcoal
suit, his face an impenetrable mask.
“Marcus,” Cassian said softly.
“Boss,” Marcus replied, keeping his voice steady, though a bead of sweat
glistened at his right temple.
“Bring the audio decryptor from the security terminal.”
“Right away, sir.” Marcus turned on his heel toward the double doors.
“Stop.”
Cassian’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet it made Marcus freeze
mid-step.
Cassian extended his left hand. “Sarah. Hand me your tablet.”
As the head server for Mia’s private wing, I carried an encrypted administrative
tablet synchronized with the villa's communication network. My hands shook as I
unlocked the screen and handed the device to Cassian.
He slotted the microchip into the external forensic reader at the base of the
tablet.
The screen illuminated with a harsh blue glow. A waveform visualization
appeared, pulsing against the dark background.
Cassian tapped the center of the glass.
The audio file played through the dining room's integrated sound system.
The first voice was unmistakable: Giselle Fontaine, speaking in sharp, rapid
French eighteen months ago.
“The tracker is active inside the music box. Isabella took Mia to the transport
five minutes ago. Confirm the coordinates, Marcus.”
Then came the second voice. It did not speak French; it spoke Italian, in the
gravelly, familiar cadence that had commanded the Vance syndicate’s perimeter
for over a decade.
“Coordinates locked. Tell your father in Lyon that once Isabella is erased,
Cassian will need the Fontaine alliance to survive the southern war. Tell him
our agreement stands: seventy percent of the shipping routes to France, thirty
percent to me. Execute the charge.”
The recording clicked off with a burst of static.
Forty syndicate capos stood up from the banquet table in unison, their chairs
scraping back against the marble floor like the cocking of rifles. Don Moretti
looked at Marcus Rossi with an expression of pure, venomous disgust.
Marcus didn't try to explain. He didn't plead for mercy.
With the speed of a seasoned killer, Marcus threw himself to the left, drawing a
suppressed ceramic pistol from beneath his jacket, aiming the barrel directly at
Cassian’s chest.
“Down!” Cassian roared.
In a fraction of a second, Cassian didn't dive for cover; he lunged across the
floor, throwing his massive frame over Mia and me, shielding us with his entire
body as the first round tore through the mahogany chair where Mia had been
sitting seconds before.
Splinters of antique wood rained down on my back.
Before Marcus could squeeze off a second shot, the glass windows overlooking the
terrace shattered inward in an explosion of crystalline shards and rain.
Cassian’s snipers fired two synchronized rounds.
The first bullet struck Marcus Rossi’s shoulder, spinning him around; the second
tore through his right knee, dropping him heavily to the marble floor in a pool
of dark blood.
His weapon clattered across the tiles, coming to rest against Giselle’s
trembling heels.
Cassian rose slowly from the floor, brushing wood splinters from his tuxedo. He
looked down at Mia, who was clutching my apron with white-knuckled desperation,
her blind eyes wide with terror behind her dark glasses.
“Sarah,” Cassian murmured, his voice completely level despite the gunfire. “Is
Mia unharmed?”
“She’s safe, Mr. Vance,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I ran my hands over
the little girl’s trembling shoulders. “She’s not hurt.”
Cassian reached out and gently laid his hand on the crown of Mia’s head. “Close
your ears for ten seconds, sweetheart. Papa has business to finish.”
Mia immediately pressed her palms tight over her ears, burying her face into the
curve of my neck.
Cassian walked across the room toward Marcus Rossi, who was dragging his
shattered leg across the floor, leaving a thick smear of crimson on the white
Carrara marble.
Cassian stopped, his polished dress shoes inches from Marcus’s face.
“Twelve years, Marcus,” Cassian said, looking down at his former underboss.
“You... you were going to bring the whole family down with your grief, Cassian,”
Marcus gasped, coughing blood onto the floor. “After Isabella died, you were
obsessed with ghosts. Henri Fontaine offered us an empire. You were weak.”
“I am many things, Marcus,” Cassian replied, drawing a custom matte-black Sig
Sauer from his shoulder holster with fluid, terrifying grace. “Weak is not among
them.”
Crack.
A single shot echoed off the high frescoed ceiling.
Marcus Rossi went limp on the marble floor.
Cassian lowered the weapon, turning his gaze toward Giselle Fontaine, who was
hyperventilating against the buffet table, her emerald dress stained with rain
and blood.
“Lock her in the wine vaults beneath the east bastion,” Cassian commanded
without looking at his guards. “Strip her of all communication devices. If she
speaks, tape her mouth shut.”
Four armed guards dragged Giselle kicking and screaming down the corridor, her
frantic cries swallowed by the thunder outside.
Cassian turned his back on the carnage, his obsidian eyes locking onto me as I
knelt on the floor, holding his weeping daughter in my arms.
“Sarah,” he said.
May you like
I swallowed hard, looking up at the Reaper of Naples. “Yes, Mr. Vance?”
“Come with me to my study. Bring Mia.”
