Chapter 4 - The House of Glass
The heavy stone stairs leading back up from the subterranean panic room felt cooler than usual. Every step I took reminded me of my age, of the scarred tissue around my ventricles, and of the precarious tightrope I had walked for decades between absolute power and sudden oblivion.
When I pushed open the concealed panel behind the dining room fireplace, the air upstairs was dead and still.
The crystal chandelier overhead still cast its warm, golden glow across the mahogany table, illuminating my untouched espresso and the amber prescription bottle sitting beside it like a tiny, toxic monument. But the atmosphere of the room had shifted. The quiet elegance of the estate had been replaced by an underlying, predatory tension.
Footsteps echoed softly in the grand foyer outside the double doors—heavy, deliberate strides of men wearing tactical boots and carrying suppressed firearms.
I didn't hide. I walked calmly to the head of the mahogany table, pulled out my chair, and sat down, resting my hands flat on the polished wood with the Beretta resting safely and invisibly on my lap.
The double doors swung open with a soft click.
Two men stepped into the dining room. They wore dark, tailored tactical suits, earpieces glowing with a faint blue light, and carried themselves with the unmistakable posture of professional mercenaries—men who didn't ask questions about morals, only about pay rates.
The lead operative—a tall man with a jagged scar running down the left side of his neck and cold, gray eyes—stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me sitting alone at the table.
His hand twitched instinctively toward the holster beneath his left armpit.
"Don Moretti," the scarred man said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Where is Mr. Salvatore?"
"Victor had an unexpected change of travel plans," I replied calmly, not breaking eye contact as I picked up my porcelain espresso cup and took a slow, deliberate sip. The coffee was stone cold, bitter on my tongue. "He realized he left a few loose ends here in Piedmont, and he decided it was best to depart without fanfare."
The operative’s eyes narrowed. He surveyed the empty room, his gaze lingering on the open service corridor door and the flickering wall-mounted security panel that still flashed yellow from the EMP override.
"The perimeter sensors indicated a localized override," the operative said, his hand remaining dangerously close to his weapon. "Mr. Salvatore gave strict instructions that if the communications relay was triggered, we were to secure the premises and ensure zero digital or physical liabilities remained on-site."
"Liabilities," I repeated the word, letting it roll across my tongue as if it were a foreign object. "A curious word for a man who served faithfully for twenty-five years."
"Mr. Salvatore’s personal business is none of my concern," the operative replied coldly, taking a step forward into the room. "My concern is ensuring the estate is cleaned of all unauthorized personnel. And that includes you, Don Moretti."
He drew his weapon with practiced, lightning-fast precision, bringing the black barrel up to level with my chest.
"It's been a long career, Don," he murmured, his finger tightening slightly against the trigger guard. "Nothing personal. Just logistics."
In my world, men who talked about logistics right before pulling a trigger usually forgot one critical detail: they weren't the only ones calculating angles.
Before the operative’s finger could complete the final squeeze, the heavy oak doors behind him burst open with a resounding crash.
Clack-clack-clack-clack.
The distinctive, deafening roar of tactical shotguns filled the enclosed space of the dining room.
Gabriel, my head of security, flanked by four heavily armed veterans from our elite personal detail, poured through the double doors. The two mercenaries didn't even have time to swing their weapons around before three heavy rubber-and-buckshot rounds caught the lead operative square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and slamming him hard against the mahogany sideboard.
The second operative dropped his weapon instantly, raising his hands high into the air as Gabriel’s service pistol pressed firmly against the base of his skull.
"Clear!" Gabriel barked, his eyes scanning the room before locking onto me with fierce, unwavering loyalty. "Don Moretti! Are you injured?"
I remained seated at the head of the table. I slowly lowered my espresso cup back onto its saucer, the porcelain making a sharp, clear clink against the wood.
"I am entirely unharmed, Gabriel," I said quietly.
Gabriel stepped over the groaning, disarmed mercenary on the floor and approached the table, his face darkened with suppressed fury. "We intercepted an encrypted burst transmission leaving the perimeter relay toward a private airstrip near Alessandria. Victor Salvatore is attempting to board a chartered Gulfstream to Madrid. His ground transport is twenty minutes out."
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I stood up from my chair, the heavy wool of my suit jacket falling neatly into place. I reached down, picked up the amber prescription bottle from the table, and slipped it securely into my pocket alongside Sophia’s crayon drawing.
"Then I suggest we don't keep him waiting," I said. "Prepare the cars."
