Chapter 6 - The Defense of the Realm
The Moretti estate had not been built merely as a luxury residence; it was a modern fortress.
When I took over leadership of the Moretti Syndicate three years ago following my father's death, I spent eight million dollars retrofitting the house with automated steel shutters, ballistic glass, and secondary defensive systems controlled from a master panel in the foyer.
I ducked behind the marble reception desk, reaching beneath the lip to slam my palm against an emergency red button labeled PROTOCOL OMEGA.
Instantly, heavy steel blast shutters dropped down over every ground-floor window and doorway with a series of thunderous, metallic crashes.
The sound of gunfire outside was instantly muffled, reduced to faint, rhythmic thuds against the four-inch ballistic steel plating.
Inside the grand lobby, darkness fell, broken only by the soft red glow of the emergency backup lighting.
"Shutters locked!" Marco shouted, sweeping his tactical light across the perimeter walls. "We’ve sealed the ground floor!"
"Check the security feeds," I ordered, stepping up to the central monitoring console behind the desk.
The monitors flickered to life, displaying twelve camera angles of the outside grounds.
On the south lawn, eight heavily armed men wearing thermal suits and ballistic helmets had paused near the shattered fountain, realize their entry points had been sealed shut by the steel shutters.
In the center of the group stood a tall, broad-shouldered man carrying an automatic shotgun. He raised his hand, signalling his men to stop.
He stepped toward the security camera mounted above the front porch, pulling off his thermal mask.
It was Paulie Falcone—Dominic Falcone’s younger brother and the head of the syndicate's enforcement arm.
Paulie looked directly into the camera lens, a cold, arrogant smirk spreading across his scarred face. He held up a small electronic remote control—identical to the signal transmitter Marco had found in the nursery ceiling.
"Adrien!" Paulie’s voice boomed through the front door's intercom speaker, distorted by static. "I know you're listening! You have twenty seconds to open these steel doors and hand over Victor Rossi's leather briefcase!"
May you like
"And if I refuse, Paulie?" I spoke calmly into the microphone.
"If you refuse, I press this button," Paulie laughed darkly. "The little ultrasonic toy in your babies' room was just a test frequency, Adrien. The secondary devices we placed in your basement and structural columns aren't speakers. They're remote-detonated breaching charges. I will blow the foundation out from under your feet and bury you and your motherless bastards in fifty tons of concrete!"
