Chapter 9 - SHADOWS IN THE CROSSHAIRS
The silhouette beneath the service door did not retreat.
Slowly, with agonizing, deliberate care, the brass latch of the slate door began to rotate.
Click.
The oiled mechanism gave way with a microscopic metallic whisper that would have been lost to anyone whose senses were not honed by twenty years of surviving ambushes. The heavy oak panel shifted inward half an inch, breaking the seal of the weatherstripping, allowing a cold, damp draft of air from the unheated service stairwell to pour out onto the marble floor.
The smell that drifted through the crack was faint, but unmistakable to Adrian’s sharp senses: expensive Italian cologne, the metallic tang of rain-soaked wool, and the unmistakable, oily scent of gun cleaning solvent.
Dean Russo.
The enforcer was not waiting for Thursday night.
Realizing that Claire was not in her room—discovering that the little maid who had overheard his treason in the basement was missing from her bed—Dean had panicked. He had taken his weapon, slipped up the private service stairs, and was now stalking the family corridor to eliminate the threat before she could speak to the boss. He did not know that Adrian was awake. He did not know that the Don was standing ten yards away in the amber light, waiting for him.
Adrian’s grip tightened on the brass fireplace poker until the twisted metal bit into his scarred palm.
His eyes were completely black, devoid of light, burning with a cold, terrifying calculation. He did not draw his phone. He did not shout for guards. In this house, a traitor within the inner circle was a cancer that had to be excised cleanly, decisively, without giving the conspirators in the outer ranks an opportunity to scatter or pull secondary triggers.
The door pushed open another three inches.
A hand appeared around the edge of the dark wood—fingers clad in thin black leather gloves, gripping the frame to steady a silent entrance.
Behind Adrian, Claire’s small hands reached out again, clutching the back of his silk robe, her face buried into the hollow of his spine, trembling in silent, suffocating prayer.
Adrian did not wait for the intruder to clear the threshold.
Moving with the explosive, concussive speed that had made the Moretti name a legend of terror throughout New York, Adrian lunged.
His bare feet crossed the dark marble in two massive, soundless strides. He didn't raise the poker to strike; he used his broad, muscular shoulder like a battering ram, throwing his entire two-hundred-pound athletic mass directly against the face of the heavy oak door.
SLAM!
The concussive impact echoed through the second-floor gallery like a cannon shot.
The heavy slate door smashed violently inward into the service stairwell, striking the man behind it with catastrophic force.
A sharp, wet crunch of cartilage and a muffled, strangled scream tore through the darkness as Dean Russo was thrown backward down the first three steps of the service stairs, his leather dress shoes skidding against the unfinished timber treads.
Before Dean could recover, before his gloved hand could clear the holster tucked beneath his dark overcoat, Adrian crossed the threshold into the dark stairwell.
He dropped the brass poker with a clatter.
His large, bare tattooed hands shot forward into the shadows like iron vices. His left hand clamped onto the lapels of Dean’s expensive suit, hauling the dazed enforcer upright by his neck, slamming his head back against the concrete wall of the stairwell with enough violence to crack the plaster.
Dean let out a high-pitched, pathetic wheeze, his slicked-back hair in disarray, blood pouring freely from a shattered nose, his eyes rolling back in sheer, unadulterated terror as he found himself staring into the face of Adrian Moretti.
Adrian’s face was inches from his. The Don was not breathing hard. His eyes were wide, dark, and utterly serene—the serenity of an executioner adjusting the noose.
With his right hand, Adrian reached inside Dean’s open overcoat, his fingers smoothly plucking a suppressed Beretta 92FS from the enforcer’s shoulder holster.
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He pressed the cold, matte-black steel of the suppressor directly beneath Dean’s chin, driving the muzzle upward until the enforcer was forced onto the tips of his toes to breathe.
“You’re walking the halls late, Dean,” Adrian whispered, his voice a low, gravelly melody that froze the blood in Russo’s veins. “Looking for someone?”
