Chapter 4 - Blood Against Blood
The penthouse in Manhattan was lavish, filled with modern art, glass walls, and sweeping views of Central Park. Thunder rumbled outside as rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass.
Marco Moretti, thirty-five, impeccably dressed in a tailored navy suit, was frantically throwing gold watches, passports, and stacks of hundred-dollar bills into an aluminum briefcase. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.
“Come on, come on...” Marco muttered to himself, checking his watch.
The heavy oak front door of the penthouse suddenly shattered inward with a deafening EXPLOSION of wood splinters and metal hinges.
Marco screamed, dropping his briefcase as six heavily armed Moretti enforcers rushed into the penthouse, weapons raised. Behind them walked Alessandro, moving with slow, terrifying precision.
“Going somewhere, cousin?” Alessandro asked, his voice carrying the calm authority of a grim reaper.
Marco backed away slowly until his knees hit his glass desk. His face was gray with panic. “Alessandro! What... what is the meaning of this? Why are your men breaking down my door?”
Alessandro walked slowly into the center of the living room. He didn't draw a gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood there, staring at the man he had grown up with, the man he had trusted like a brother.
Victor stepped forward and tossed a thick stack of printed bank statements onto the glass desk.
“Five hundred thousand dollars, Marco,” Alessandro said softly. “Transferred to Frank Russo on October 12th, three years ago. Two days before Isabella and Arya were driven off the cliff.”
Marco stared at the papers, his jaw trembling. “I... I don't know what you’re talking about! That was a loan! A business investment in Russo’s shipping company!”
“Russo doesn't own a shipping company,” Alessandro replied, taking another step forward. “He’s Lorenzo Valenti’s chief hitman. You paid him half a million dollars. What was the payment for, Marco?”
“Alessandro, please! We’re family!” Marco cried out, sweat pouring down his forehead. “You have to believe me! I would never hurt Isabella! I loved her like a sister!”
“DON'T UTTER HER NAME!” Alessandro roared, his calm facade shattering like glass.
In a flash, Alessandro closed the distance, grabbing Marco by the throat and slamming him violently onto the glass desk. The thick glass cracked under the force of the impact. Alessandro pinned his cousin down, his fingers digging deep into Marco’s neck, cutting off his air supply.
“Tell me the truth!” Alessandro demanded, his eyes burning with pure vengeance. “Tell me before I tear your throat out with my bare hands!”
Marco choked, turning red, his eyes bulging as he fought for air. “It... it was... Valenti!” Marco gasped out desperately. “Valenti had dirt on me! He knew I was embezzling from the Moretti accounts! He threatened to tell you!”
“So you traded my family’s lives to save your own skin?” Alessandro whispered, his voice trembling with unbelievable fury.
“No! No!” Marco wheezed out, tears streaming down his face. “I didn't know he was going to kill them! Russo said... Russo said they were just going to kidnap Isabella and hold her for ransom to force you to give up the docks! I gave them her route! I didn't know Russo was going to cut the brake lines on the coastal road! I swear to God, Alessandro, I didn't know they would die!”
The truth hit Alessandro like a physical blow.
The brake lines. It hadn't been an accident. It hadn't even been wet pavement. His cousin had given Valenti’s assassin the exact route Isabella took to pick up little Arya from school every afternoon.
Alessandro’s grip on Marco’s neck tightened. Every killer instinct inside him screamed to snap his cousin’s neck right here, right now. The room was dead silent save for the sound of thunder shaking the glass windows.
Victor took a cautious step forward. “Boss... if you kill him now, Valenti will know we have the truth. He’ll go into hiding.”
Alessandro stared into the terrified, weeping eyes of the man who had destroyed his world. Slowly, excruciatingly, Alessandro released his grip.
Marco collapsed onto the cracked desk, coughing violently and clutching his bruised throat, gasping for oxygen.
Alessandro stood straight, pulling out a white handkerchief and casually wiping his hands as if he had touched something filthy.
“Lock him in the basement at the Long Island estate,” Alessandro ordered Victor coldly. “Put four men on him. If he so much as breathes without permission, break his legs.”
“No! Alessandro, please! Have mercy!” Marco wept, crawling on the floor, trying to grab Alessandro’s pant leg. “I’m your blood!”
Alessandro kicked Marco’s hand away with absolute disgust.
“You lost your blood the moment you gave away my daughter’s path home,” Alessandro said softly, his voice devoid of any warmth. “You will stay alive just long enough to watch me tear Lorenzo Valenti’s empire to ashes.”
Without looking back, Alessandro walked out of the penthouse.
As the Escalade drove back through the pouring rain toward Long Island, Alessandro closed his eyes. The grief that had weighed on his chest for three years was no longer heavy—it had transformed into an unstoppable, cold rage.
The conspiracy was bigger than he had imagined. Lorenzo Valenti, Frank Russo, and his own traitorous cousin had orchestrated the murder of his family.
When he arrived back at his mansion in the quiet hours before dawn, he didn't go to his dark study. Instead, his feet carried him up the grand marble staircase to the east wing.
He gently pushed open the door to the guest suite.
In the dim light of the fireplace, he saw Sophia sitting in an armchair, fast asleep with an open book in her lap. On the large bed beside her, tiny Emma was curled up, holding her rag doll, sleeping peacefully without a care in the world.
Alessandro stood in the doorway for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the little girl’s chest.
For three years, his mansion had been a tomb. But looking at Emma and Sophia, Alessandro felt something shifting inside his soul. He wasn't just fighting for revenge anymore. He was fighting to protect the innocent life that had miraculously breathed warmth back into his dead home.
May you like
He quietly closed the door and looked down the hallway toward the room he hadn't opened in three years—Arya’s bedroom.
With slow, deliberate steps, Alessandro walked down the corridor. He reached out his hand, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then turned the brass doorknob.
