Chapter 30 - The Hour of the Phoenix
Through the service doors stepped Marco—Luca’s most trusted lieutenant, the man who had guarded Mrs. Moretti for fifteen years.
Behind him marched eight tactical operators wearing unmarked black armor, weapons raised and trained directly at the back of Luca’s head.
My stomach dropped into a bottomless abyss.
"Marco?" Luca breathed, his voice cracking with a disbelief I had never heard in him before. His posture remained rigid, his weapon still aimed at Corrado, but the color completely drained from his face. "You?"
Marco didn't meet Luca’s eyes. His face was stone. "I’m sorry, Boss. The Council pays in perpetuity. The Moretti line was always going to end with you."
Vanessa burst into a sharp, hysterical laugh from behind Corrado’s bodyguards. "Did you really think you were untouchable, Luca? You discarded me like trash for this peasant girl! Now you get to die beside your precious maid!"
Luca didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his stance, placing himself directly in front of me, using his own broad torso as a human shield against the guns trained on us from every direction.
"Elena," Luca whispered, his voice barely audible under the chaos. "When I drop, you run for the freight elevator behind the kitchen. The code is 3-1-7. Don't look back."
"No," I whispered fiercely, gripping his tuxedo jacket from behind. "I am not leaving you."
Corrado chuckled, the sound dry and sickening. He raised his cane, pointing the silver serpent tip directly at Luca’s chest.
"Kill the Moretti boy," Corrado commanded coldly. "Bring me the girl and the watch."
Marco raised his tactical pistol, leveling the barrel squarely at Luca’s temple.
"Any last words, Boss?" Marco asked quietly.
Before Luca could answer, before Marco could pull the trigger, the massive double oak doors at the main entrance of the ballroom blew inward with an ear-shattering, concussive roar.
The shockwave knocked half the delegates to their knees. Glass chandeliers shattered above, raining crystal shards across the marble floor.
Through the billowing white smoke and fire of the ruined doorway, a figure stepped into the light.
She was flanked by twenty elite private contractors in heavy combat tactical gear, all bearing the golden crest of the Carbone Phoenix on their tactical vests.
Walking at the head of the strike force, holding a silver-plated submachine gun with lethal elegance, was Mrs. Moretti.
Beside her walked a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark trench coat, his hair streaked with silver, a jagged scar running along his jawline. He wore an antique silver pocket watch chain looped through his vest.
The man stepped into the center of the hall, his dark eyes locking onto Don Corrado.
Corrado took a stumbling step back, his cane clattering against the marble floor, his face freezing in sheer, unadulterated terror.
"L-Lorenzo?" Corrado gasped, his voice trembling like a dying man's. "It’s... it’s impossible! You died ten years ago!"
The man who had supposedly burned in a car crash ten years ago didn't look at Corrado. He looked directly across the sea of raised weapons, his eyes landing on me.
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"Hello, little bird," the man said softly. "Forgive me for being late."
Before anyone could move, a red laser sight painted the center of my father’s forehead—and from the high shadows of the ceiling catwalk, the unmistakable click of a sniper rifle echoed through the hall.
