Chapter 6 - The Night of Red Rain
At four o'clock in the morning, while Sophia, Leo, and Lily slept safely under the protection of thirty guards in the East Wing, Alessandro led the strike force himself.
A fleet of twelve black armored SUVs tore through the rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn toward the waterfront warehouse district.
Inside the master command vehicle, Alessandro sat in full tactical gear, checking the magazine of his automatic rifle. Beside him, Matteo watched live satellite feeds of Volkov’s main stronghold—a heavily fortified shipping container terminal near Pier 42.
"Volkov thinks Marco is still hiding inside the mansion," Matteo reported. "He has no idea we’re coming."
"Good," Alessandro said coldly. "Leave no survivors near the dock office. I want Volkov alive."
Ten minutes later, the assault began.
It was not a long, drawn-out battle; it was a masterclass in tactical dominance.
The Moretti strike force breached the perimeter gates with armored rams. Flashbang grenades blinded the Russian guards patrolling the shipping containers; suppressed gunfire echoed through the rain as team after team secured the perimeter.
Alessandro moved through the main warehouse like a phantom. He fired with lethal precision, taking down three armed guards who rushed out of the main office.
He kicked open the heavy iron doors of Volkov’s private office.
Inside, Ivan Volkov—a massive, scarred man in his fifties—was frantically trying to stuff stacks of hundred-dollar bills and passports into a leather duffel bag.
When Volkov saw Alessandro standing in the doorway, covered in rain and fire, his face turned the color of ash. He reached for his gold-plated pistol on the desk.
THWIP!
Alessandro fired a single round, shattering Volkov’s wrist. The gold gun clattered uselessly across the floor.
Volkov collapsed against his leather armchair, clutching his bleeding wrist, gasping for air. "Moretti... wait! Wait! It was business! Just business!"
Alessandro walked slowly across the room. He picked up the gold pistol from the floor, ejected the magazine, and tossed the empty weapon onto the desk.
He grabbed Volkov by his beard, dragging the massive Russian boss out of his chair and slamming him against the reinforced glass window overlooking the harbor.
"Business?" Alessandro rasped, his eyes inches from Volkov’s terrified face. "You put a bomb in my eight-year-old son's birthday cake, Volkov. You tried to slaughter innocent children in my house."
"It was Marco's idea!" Volkov lied frantically, his voice high-pitched with terror. "Marco came to me! He said he wanted the throne!"
"It doesn't matter whose idea it was," Alessandro whispered softly. "You funded it. And in New York, when you touch a Moretti child, your entire bloodline pays the price."
May you like
Alessandro pulled out his tactical blade, pressing the cold steel against Volkov’s throat.
"Tell your contacts in Moscow that New York belongs to the Morettis," Alessandro growled. "And tell them if I ever see another Russian ship near these docks, I will hunt down every man who carries your name."
