Chapter 3 - The Estate at Dawn
The Moretti estate was an eighteen-century stone fortress surrounded by ancient olive groves and protected by a three-meter-high volcanic stone wall topped with biometric sensors and high-definition cameras. Under normal circumstances, approaching the villa without triggering the alarm matrix was impossible.
But Alessandro knew every blind spot in the system—flaws he had intentionally left uncorrected when he redesigned the security perimeter five years ago, a safety measure precisely for a scenario where his own house was turned against him.
The three SUVs stopped two kilometers away in a darkened lemon grove. Alessandro, Pietro, and the six men from Catania dismounted silently, their movements fluid and practiced. They wore black tactical gear without insignia. In their hands, they carried silenced submachine guns—weapons that left no forensic signature unique to the Moretti family arsenal.
“Pietro, take three men and secure the security lodge,” Alessandro commanded, his voice barely louder than the rustle of the wind through the lemon leaves. “Cut the external communication lines first, then take out the monitors. Do not use firearms unless necessary. I want Marco alive.”
“Understood, Boss,” Pietro said, signaling his team. They vanished into the shadows of the stone wall like ghosts.
Alessandro led the remaining three men through a narrow drainage culvert that ran beneath the western sector of the perimeter wall. The culvert emerged inside the formal gardens, fifty meters from the rear entrance of the main villa. The scent of jasmine and wet earth was thick in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile, cold atmosphere of the Milan hotel room he had occupied hours before.
They moved from the shadow of one marble statue to another, checking the windows. The main house was dark, save for a single light burning in the library on the ground floor.
Alessandro slipped his master keycard into the side door lock. The small LED indicator flashed blue, then green. The lock clicked open with a soft, mechanical hiss. They entered the service corridor, their boots making no sound on the terracotta tiles.
As they reached the intersection leading to the main foyer, the sound of voices carried down the hall from the library.
“...should have been on the plane an hour ago,” a man’s voice said—it was Marco. His tone was nervous, lacking the usual deferential calm he used when speaking to Alessandro. “The Russians don't sign quickly. Moretti will be stuck in Milan until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. That gives us twelve hours to move the crates from the lower cellar to the farm in Paternò.”
A second voice, unfamiliar and harsh with the distinct dialect of the Palermo slums, replied: “The Gravano boys want the ledger, Marco. The money is fine, but without the accounts for the maritime routes, the old man won't pay the rest of your mother's bills. You find the book, or we take back the deposit.”
“I told you, the ledger is in the study safe,” Marco snapped. “The safe requires a biometric scan and a rolling key. I can't open it without him. We have to wait until he returns, then we stage the ambush in the courtyard when his car enters the gates.”
Alessandro stepped around the corner into the doorway of the library.
The room was vast, lined with leather-bound books that had belonged to three generations of Morettis. In the center of the room, standing near the large blue Ming vase Emma had mentioned on the phone, was Marco Valli. Beside him stood two men in heavy leather jackets, their hands resting near their waistbands.
“You always were impatient, Marco,” Alessandro said.
The three men spun around. The two Palermo gunmen reached for their pistols, but the three operators behind Alessandro were faster. Three muffled cracks echoed through the high-ceilinged room. The two strangers collapsed instantly into the thick Persian rug, their weapons clattering uselessly against the floorboards.
Marco froze, his hands raised, his face losing all color until he looked like one of the marble statues in the garden outside. His eyes darted from Alessandro to the dead men, then back again.
“Boss,” Marco stammered, his voice trembling. “I... it’s not what it looks like. These men, they forced their way in. They were threatening the staff. I was trying to play along to keep everyone safe.”
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Alessandro walked forward, his steps measured and heavy. He stopped in front of the blue vase, reached inside, and pulled out a heavy, shimmering diamond bracelet. He tossed it onto the desk.
“Emma told me it was here,” Alessandro said.
