Chapter 4 - The Investigation
Marco fell to his knees, his hands locked behind his head, his body shaking with an uncontrollable tremor. The reality of his situation had finally pierced his panic: Alessandro Moretti was not in Milan. The deal was gone, the ambush was blown, and he was alone in a room with the man who controlled the fate of everyone within fifty miles of the coast.
“Please, Alessandro,” Marco begged, using the boss’s first name for the first time in ten years—a desperate attempt to appeal to their shared history. “My mother... the doctors said she had months left. The clinic in Switzerland was the only place that had the new trials. I didn't have the three hundred thousand francs. You know what they pay us... it wasn't enough for that.”
“If you had come to me,” Alessandro said, his voice flat, devoid of anger or pity, “I would have bought the clinic, Marco. I would have flown the specialists to Sicily. You knew that.”
Marco looked down at the floor, unable to meet Alessandro’s gaze. “I couldn't ask. The shame... and Gravano approached me first. He knew before I did. He had the medical records from the hospital in Catania before the doctors even called me. He set the trap, and I stepped into it.”
Pietro entered the library, his boots covered in morning dew. He carried a heavy tactical radio. “The security lodge is clear, Boss. Five of Marco’s men are secured in the cellar. None of them chose to fight once they saw the team. The rest of the staff is asleep in the rear quarters; they don't know anything has happened.”
“And Elena?” Alessandro asked.
“She’s still in the carriage house. We have secured the two men Marco left to watch her. They are currently tied to the pipes in the garage. Elena and the child are unharmed, but the woman is packing. She thinks she’s being deported to Albania by morning.”
Alessandro turned his back on Marco and walked to the window. The first grey light of dawn was beginning to break over the Ionian Sea, painting the horizon in shades of silver and pale blue. The ancient olive trees stood like twisted sentinels across the landscape.
“Matteo,” Alessandro called out.
The lawyer stepped forward from the hallway, his face grim. “Yes, Signor Moretti?”
“Call the clinic in Lugano,” Alessandro ordered. “Tell them the Moretti foundation is assuming full financial responsibility for the Valli account. Transfer the entire balance by noon today. Add an extra one hundred thousand for the staff bonuses to ensure she receives the highest tier of care.”
Marco looked up, his eyes wide with confusion and a sudden, horrible realization of what that generosity meant. “Alessandro... you're paying for her? Why?”
Alessandro did not turn around. “Because your mother served my family honorably for fifteen years before she got sick, Marco. She is innocent. Her son, however, is a traitor.”
He signaled to Pietro. “Take him to the wine cellar beneath the old press house. I don't want him near the main villa. Keep him alive until I’ve spoken with Elena.”
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Pietro gripped Marco by the collar of his jacket and dragged him from the room. The captain of the guard did not fight back; his legs dragged uselessly across the floor, his spirit entirely broken by the calculated mercy Alessandro had shown to his family—a mercy that highlighted the absolute finality of his own sentence.
Alessandro stood in the quiet library for a moment longer, looking at the two dead men from Palermo. “Get these cleaned up before the sun is fully up,” he told the remaining guards. “I don't want Emma seeing blood on the grass when she looks out the window.”
