Chapter 9 - The First Word
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The cleanup was swift and silent. Dante’s men dragged the bodies into the woods to be disposed of later, securing the perimeter with lethal efficiency.
Inside the ruined cabin, Dante refused to let go of Elina’s hand as they walked into the master bedroom.
Nina was still shaking, sitting beside the bed, but Matteo was safe. The monitors were beeping steadily.
Dante approached the bed, his dark eyes filled with a desperate, agonizing hope.
"Matteo," Dante whispered, leaning over his older brother.
Matteo’s eyes were open. They were unfocused, glassy, and filled with pain, but they were tracking movement. He looked at Dante, his brow furrowing as he fought through the heavy fog of brain trauma.
His lips parted. He tried to speak, but only a dry, raspy wheeze escaped.
Nina quickly handed Dante a small cup of water with a sponge swab. Dante gently moistened his brother’s lips.
"Take your time, fratello," Dante murmured, tears finally breaking through his iron control. "I'm here."
Matteo swallowed hard, his throat clicking. He looked past Dante, his eyes locking onto the small girl hiding behind her mother’s legs. Mia waved shyly.
"The... angel," Matteo rasped, his voice barely a whisper.
Dante laughed, a broken, beautiful sound. "Yes. The angel saved your life. She saw you move when the doctors gave up."
Matteo’s gaze shifted back to his brother. The confusion slowly faded, replaced by the sharp, calculating intelligence that had made him the most feared consigliere in the city.
"Vincenzo," Matteo choked out, struggling to form the words.
"I know," Dante nodded grimly. "I killed him. He sold us out to the Russians."
Matteo shook his head weakly, a frantic look entering his eyes. He reached up with trembling fingers and grabbed Dante’s collar, pulling him closer.
"Not... Russians," Matteo gasped, his chest heaving with the effort. "The Russians... were a distraction."
Dante frowned, his blood running cold. "What do you mean? They just attacked this house."
"They... were hired," Matteo whispered, his grip tightening. "By our Uncle. Carmine."
The room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.
May you like
Carmine Moretti. The patriarch of the family. The man sitting on the Syndicate Commission in New York. The man who had raised them after their father died.
"Carmine ordered the hit on me," Matteo wheezed, his eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion overtook him. "He wants... the whole empire."
