Chapter Two
The Morano estate was quiet, but not peaceful. Beneath the surface, tension writhed like a serpent. Alex paced the length of his room, his mind a battleground of theories and suspicions. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer. Every silence, heavier. He hadn't slept—not that he could. Not when the city was painting a target on his back.
A soft knock echoed on his door.
He turned sharply, half-expecting another one of his father's guards. But when the door creaked open, it was her.
Luciana Moretti, the family's long-time housekeeper, stepped inside holding a tray. In her late sixties, Luciana had sharp gray eyes that missed nothing and a mouth that rarely smiled. Her loyalty to the Moranos was unwavering, her silence legendary. She'd practically raised Alex and Dominic, but her affection was reserved, often cloaked in sharp-tongued scoldings and meticulous care.
"You look like hell," she said bluntly, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Eat. Before you start seeing ghosts."
Alex offered a tired smile. "I already do."
She paused, studying him for a long moment. "I heard about Carlo. That wasn't just business. That was a betrayal."
"I didn't do it, Luciana."
"I know. But that doesn't matter, does it? Perception is louder than truth in this house."
Before he could respond, footsteps approached from the hallway—two sets, brisk and purposeful. The door burst open without warning.
Gianni Salvatore, one of Vito's most trusted enforcers, stood there in a sleek black suit, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. In his mid-thirties, Gianni had a chiseled jaw, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and a reputation for making problems disappear—permanently. Cold and calculated, he had little patience for diplomacy.
Beside him was Nina Ferraro, the family's legal counsel. Young, fierce, and brilliant, Nina was known for her steely demeanor and sharp intellect. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her tailored navy suit looked more battle-ready than corporate. Her dark eyes flicked to Luciana, then to Alex.
"Out," she said curtly to the housekeeper.
Luciana gave Alex a warning glance before slipping from the room.
Nina stepped in, closing the door behind her. "You're not just a suspect now, Alex. You're a liability. The police are building a case—and the press is sniffing around. The moment your name leaks, this family loses control of the narrative."
"I didn't kill him," Alex snapped. "Someone framed me."
"We know," Gianni said, arms crossed. "But the story isn't about truth. It's about leverage. The Russos are playing a long game, and you walked straight into it."
Alex's eyes narrowed. "You think the Russos planted the calling card?"
"It's a classic play," Nina said. "Leave a signature behind. Send a message. Destabilize the Moranos from within. They want to force Vito to act emotionally—pin you down, split the family, break the chain of command."
Gianni added, "They're baiting him. And you're the hook."
Alex dropped into the leather chair beside the window, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Carlo told me he was scared. Said someone was feeding information to the Russos. There's a traitor."
Nina and Gianni exchanged a glance.
"Then we find them," Gianni said grimly. "But you can't do it locked up in this room."
Alex looked up. "Then get me out."
Nina raised an eyebrow. "You planning to run?"
"No," he said. "I'm going to find out who killed Carlo—and why."
She exhaled, then pulled a document from her briefcase and slid it across the desk. "Your father signed off. Temporary movement allowance within the estate perimeter. But if you step beyond that without permission, Gianni has orders to bring you back. Or put you down."
Gianni gave a tight smile. "Don't test me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alex muttered.
As they turned to leave, Nina paused. "One more thing. There's someone new poking around. A woman. Claims she's working on a development deal Carlo was brokering. Her name is Sophia Romano."
The name hit Alex like a slap.
"Sophia?"
"You know her?"
"No," he lied smoothly. "Never heard of her."
Nina watched him for a beat longer than necessary. "She's meeting with your father tomorrow. You might want to be there."
When they left, Alex stood frozen, heart pounding.
Sophia Romano.
The name was too perfect, too well-timed. Carlo never mentioned her—and Alex made it his business to know every player in the city's real estate web. So who was she?
A warning whispered through his gut.
Whoever Sophia was, she wasn't here to make deals.
She was here to break something.
Or someone.
The morning after Carlo Ventresca's murder dawned bleak and gray as if the city itself was in mourning. Rain tapped lightly against the bulletproof windows of the Morano estate like a steady reminder that time was moving on, whether Alex was ready or not.
He hadn't slept.
The folder Diego left sat open on the desk in his room, pages scattered like fragmented truths. Every detail gnawed at him—Carlo's cold body, the ace of spades, the cop who vanished without a trace. Nothing fit. Nothing made sense. But one thing was certain: he couldn't stay trapped in the estate like a caged suspect.
A soft buzz from his phone cut through the silence.
Diego: "Be ready in ten. Wear something you don't mind ditching."
Alex's fingers tightened around the device. Diego Vega was many things—loyal, ruthless when needed, and dangerously clever. Born in the rough streets of East Borough, Diego had clawed his way into the Morano fold with a mix of raw instinct and brutal efficiency. Though he bore no Morano blood, he'd earned his place as one of the most trusted men in the organization—and Alex's only true friend in the world.
At 6:05 AM sharp, the door creaked open again. This time, Diego entered dressed like a mechanic, complete with grease-streaked coveralls and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
"Time to disappear," he said.
Alex changed quickly into a spare set of black cargo pants, a hoodie, and a cap. He looked at himself in the mirror—a man hunted by the world he was born into—and followed Diego through the silent hallways of the estate. They moved like ghosts, bypassing guards with ease thanks to blind spots Diego had memorized over the years.
At the garage, a nondescript utility van waited, engine running low.
"Where to?" Alex asked as he climbed into the back.
Diego shut the doors behind them. "A safe house on the south end. Belongs to Arturo Mancini."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "The gunrunner?"
Diego nodded. "He owes me a favor."
Arturo Mancini was a middle-aged Italian ex-smuggler with more scars than smiles. Built like a tank and always smelling faintly of cigars, Arturo had operated in the shadows for years, supplying weapons and laundering cash for both the Moranos and their enemies—whichever paid more. His loyalty was questionable, but his discretion was unmatched.
The ride across the city was uneventful—Diego took back roads, zigzagging to avoid surveillance. But the silence between them was heavy.
"You still think the Russos are behind this?" Diego asked, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
Alex leaned against the metal siding. "They've been waiting for an opportunity. Carlo was the linchpin between us and several city contracts. Without him, we lose leverage."
Diego nodded slowly. "And the ace of spades?"
"That's what bothers me. Too clean. Too obvious. The Moranos haven't used that calling card in years—not since the fallout with the Vitali crew."
"Someone wanted the message to be loud."
"Or misdirected."
They pulled into a dingy alley in Southside just after sunrise. Arturo's "workshop" was hidden behind a rusted garage door tagged with graffiti. Diego knocked three times, waited, then knocked twice more.
A second later, the door creaked upward, revealing Arturo himself—broad-shouldered, bald, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and a gold tooth that flashed when he grinned.
"Well, shit," he muttered. "Didn't expect to see you in my garage, Morano."
Arturo ushered them inside. The place smelled like oil and metal. Guns, ammo crates, and unregistered cell phones lined the shelves behind stacks of car parts.
"Give him a place to lay low," Diego said. "And keep your damn mouth shut."
Arturo grunted. "My mouth's been shut longer than your father's been alive."
He led Alex to a back room with a cot, a table, and a view of nothing but alley brick.
"Welcome to paradise," Arturo said dryly, then left them alone.
As Diego secured the room, Alex paced.
"We need information. If I sit here doing nothing, this will all fall apart."
"I've already got a lead," Diego replied. "There was a woman—Carlo's assistant. Bianca Rivas. She disappeared the same night he died."
Alex stopped pacing. "Disappeared?"
Diego nodded. "No signs of forced entry at her place. No phone records after midnight. Gone, just like that."
"Think she saw something?"
"Or someone made sure she wouldn't talk."
Alex's mind was racing. He didn't like the gaps in this story. Too many players, and too few answers.
Then Diego added, "There's more. I ran a trace on that call you got—the one that tipped you off. Bounced through three unlisted numbers. But one of them? It was tied to a burner last used in Russo territory. East Docks."
Alex's heart thudded harder.
"Then we start there," he said.
Diego sighed. "You sure you're ready for this? Once you go down that path, there's no turning back."
Alex turned to face him, jaw set.
"I'm already down it."
Outside, the rain began again, heavier now—like a warning. Somewhere in the city, pieces were moving. Someone had set a trap, and Alex had walked right into it.
But now?
He was ready to set one of his own.