Chapter 4 - Seven Minutes in Flushing
The rain outside the Moretti estate had turned into a torrential downpour, sheets of cold gray water slanting against the tall glass windows of the grand ballroom.
Inside, the music played on. The string quartet had transitioned into a fast, lively Neapolitan dance, and couples were taking to the floor, twirling beneath the crystal lights.
To the world, it was an evening of triumph. To Aleandro Moretti, it was a high-wire act over an ocean of gasoline.
Aleandro stood behind Sophia’s chair, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders, applying a gentle, constant downward pressure to ensure she didn't instinctively move her weight off the pressure plate taped beneath the table.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
A single vibration.
He pulled it out smoothly, keeping it hidden beneath the edge of the table.
Text from Strike Team: Target building breach initiated. 10:56 PM.
Four minutes left.
Across the room, near the grand piano, little Emma was sitting on a wooden bench beside her mother, Elena, the housekeeper. Elena looked terrified—she had clearly gotten the warning to clear the non-essential staff, but she was lingering near the back doors, her hands wrapped tightly around her small daughter’s shoulders.
Aleandro caught Elena’s eye and gave her a subtle, firm nod, telling her to leave now. Elena pulled Emma toward the side exit leading to the gardens, but right before the little girl vanished behind the heavy velvet curtain, she looked back at Aleandro.
She raised her tiny hand and pointed at the head table.
Aleandro’s eyes narrowed.
Why was the child still pointing?
Aleandro looked down at Sophia. He looked at the white tablecloth.
Then he realized the horrifying truth.
Mateo had been arrogant, but he wasn't stupid. A man didn't plot a coup against the Moretti family without a secondary fail-safe.
Aleandro dropped to one knee beside Sophia, pretending to pick up a fallen napkin. He lifted the edge of the long white cloth and looked underneath.
The red light on the small black box taped to the wood was flashing rapidly.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
It wasn't just a manual remote detonator. It was wired to a digital countdown timer—a timer that had been triggered the moment Mateo’s heart rate spiked or his phone lost connection to the main network.
The red numbers on the tiny LED screen read: 02:14... 02:13... 02:12...
Two minutes and twelve seconds.
"Aleandro?" Sophia whispered, feeling his body go completely rigid beside her chair. "What is it?"
"Don't look down," Aleandro commanded, his voice cold and precise. "The timer is running."
Sophia gasped, a sound of absolute despair. "Oh God... Oh God, Aleandro, leave! Get out of here! Tell everyone to run!"
"If I tell three hundred people to run, there will be a stampede," Aleandro said, his mind working with terrifying speed. "People will push against this table. They will knock your chair. And the bomb will detonate instantly."
Two minutes.
Aleandro reached into his trousers and pulled out his titanium pocket knife—a sharp, slender blade he carried everywhere. He flipped it open with a soft flick.
"You know how to disarm a bomb?" Sophia sobbed quietly, trying to keep her face motionless for the guests dancing ten feet away.
"I spent four years in the Special Forces before my father died and pulled me back into this life," Aleandro said, his hands completely steady as he reached beneath the chair. "I know how this bomb works. Mateo bought it from an old military contact in Serbia. It uses a dual-loop circuit."
01:45... 01:44...
Aleandro cut through the outer casing of the small black box with a smooth, precise slice. The plastic popped open, revealing a maze of copper wiring, a small battery pack, and two primary threads: one blue, one yellow.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket.
Text from Strike Team: Flushing target cleared. Gianni Bellondi neutralized. Hostage secured safely. 10:58 PM.
Her sister was safe.
Aleandro felt a surge of cold focus wash over him. The hostage variable was eliminated. Now, it was just him, his bride, and two inches of copper wire.
"Your sister is alive, Sophia," Aleandro whispered, his eyes locked on the wire matrix beneath her seat. "She’s safe. My team has her."
Sophia let out a wet, choked sob of relief, her tears spilling onto her blue dress. "Thank God... thank God..."
00:58... 00:57...
"Now stay still," Aleandro said. "The blue wire controls the radio receiver. The yellow wire controls the pressure plate circuit. If I cut the yellow wire while your weight is still on the chair, the spring in the sensor will trip the cap."
"Then cut the blue one!" she begged.
"If I cut the blue one," Aleandro replied, "the fail-safe circuit assumes the signal was jammed by law enforcement... and it detonates instantly."
00:32... 00:31...
Sophia closed her eyes. "Then we're going to die."
"No," Aleandro said.
He reached his hand deeper under the table, gripping both wires between his index finger and thumb. He brought the razor-sharp titanium blade directly between them.
"I'm not cutting either of them," Aleandro murmured. "I'm going to bridge the circuit with the knife blade, grounding the charge to the steel frame of your chair."
"Aleandro... if your hand slips by a millimeter—"
"My hand doesn't slip," he said.
00:12... 00:11... 00:10...
Aleandro took a deep, steadying breath. He jammed the titanium blade straight into the center of the copper contact plate, driving it deep into the mahogany wood with a single, powerful shove.
Sparks showered from beneath the table.
A quiet, sharp POP echoed under the white linen, followed by a faint wispy curl of gray smoke that rose from the edge of the tablecloth.
The digital timer went black.
00:00.
The room remained standing. The violins continued to play. The guests continued to dance.
Aleandro slowly pulled his hand back out from beneath the table. His fingers were smudged with black soot, but his hands were entirely unfazed.
May you like
He stood up, wiped his hand clean with a white cloth napkin, and looked down at Sophia.
"The bomb is dead," Aleandro said quietly. "Get up."
