9: The Butcher’s Wrath

CHAPTER NINE

POV: Dante Moretti

The Council meeting was a farce of old men clinging to dying traditions. I sat in the leather armchair, my fingers drumming a rhythmic, lethal beat against the mahogany table as the head of the Irish Syndicate droned on about territory boundaries.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A single text from a ghost line I used only for Julian’s tracking chip.

Signal Lost: South Side Industrial.

I stood up so abruptly the heavy chair scraped against the floor like a scream. The room went silent. Twelve heads of the most dangerous families in the city looked at me.

"Moretti?" the Council Chairman asked, his brow furrowed. "We haven't finished the vote."

"The vote is irrelevant," I said, my voice coming from a place of cold, abyssal shadow. "One of my men has forgotten his place. And when I find him, I’m going to remind him why they call me the Butcher."

I didn't wait for a response. I walked out, the air in the hallway feeling too thin, too hot. I called Enzo.

Straight to voicemail.

I called the estate security detail. "Where is my husband?"

"Sir, Enzo said you requested him for a sweep of the South Side. They left twenty minutes ago."

The fury that erupted in my chest was unlike anything I had ever felt. It wasn't the cold, calculated anger of business. It was a volcanic, primal roar. I had known Enzo was jealous, but I had underestimated his stupidity. To touch Julian was to declare war on me. To sell him to Marcus Vane was to ask for an extinction event.

I climbed into my car, tires shrieking as I tore out of the parking garage. I dialed my secondary enforcer, Marco. "Gather the elite squad. We’re going to the South Side warehouses. If you see Enzo, take his legs. I want the rest of him alive for the interrogation."

As I sped toward the industrial district, a dull thud echoed in the distance, followed by a plume of orange fire lighting up the night sky.

"Julian," I hissed, stepping on the gas until the needle buried itself in the red.

I arrived at the warehouse to find the side entrance blown outward. Smoke billowed from the shattered windows. I didn't wait for backup. I drew my custom .45 and moved into the haze.

The interior was a graveyard of twisted metal and fire. In the center of the floor, three of Marcus’s men lay dead, their bodies riddled with glass. I looked up at the glass office. It was shattered.

"Julian!" I roared, my voice echoing through the inferno.

A cough came from behind a stack of fallen crates. I shoved the debris aside with a strength fueled by pure adrenaline.

Julian was there. He was covered in soot, his tactical vest scorched, and a deep gash running along his temple. But he was holding his gun, and his eyes were wide and feral. When he saw me, the tension in his shoulders snapped, and he nearly collapsed.

I caught him, pulling him hard against my chest. He smelled of smoke and cordite, his body trembling violently.

"I... I hit the gas line," he wheezed, clutching my shirt. "Marcus and Enzo... they were in the office. They got out through the back before the explosion."

"Are you hit?" I demanded, my hands moving over his body, checking for blood that wasn't his.

"Just my head. Dante, Enzo sold me. He’s with Marcus. They’re heading for the private airfield. They have the drives."

I pulled back, looking into his soot-stained face. The "Golden Prince" was gone. This man was a survivor. He had been through hell and used the fire to his advantage.

"You stay with Marco," I commanded as my team swarmed the building. "He’ll take you to the clinic."

"No." Julian grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. The silver Moretti ring glinted through the ash on his hand. "I’m going with you. They’re my brothers. It’s my debt. I want to see Enzo’s face when you break him."

I looked at the blood on his face, the fire in his eyes, and the silver on his finger. He wasn't a victim anymore. He was a Moretti in every sense that mattered.

"Fine," I said, a dark, lethal pride swelling in my throat. "But if you get in my way, I’ll chain you to the bed for a month."

"Promise?" he whispered, a flash of his old defiance returning.

We ran for the SUVs. The hunt was on.

The private airfield was five miles out. By the time we arrived, a small Gulfstream was idling on the tarmac, its engines whining as it prepared for takeoff. Two black sedans were parked near the stairs.

"Block the runway!" I shouted over the comms.

Two of my armored trucks veered onto the grass, cutting off the plane’s path. I slammed my car into the back of one of the sedans, the impact throwing me against the seatbelt. I didn't wait for the smoke to clear. I was out of the door before the car stopped moving.

Gunfire erupted immediately. Marcus’s remaining mercenaries tried to form a perimeter, but they were no match for my men. I moved like a reaper through the chaos, my bullets finding every throat and heart that stood between me and my targets.

I saw Enzo. He was trying to climb the stairs to the plane, a heavy briefcase the drives clutched in his hand.

"Enzo!" I bellowed.

He froze, turning toward me. His face was a mask of terror. He raised his weapon, but a shot rang out from behind me, hitting him in the shoulder.

I looked back. Julian stood by the car door, his stance perfect, his eyes narrowed. He had taken the shot.

Enzo fell to the tarmac, the briefcase sliding away. I walked up to him, the sound of my boots on the asphalt like the ticking of a death clock. I stepped on his wounded shoulder, grinding my heel into the bone.

He screamed, a high-pitched sound that was lost in the wind.

"I gave you everything, Enzo," I said, my voice a whisper that carried more weight than the gunfire. "I gave you a seat at my table. I gave you my trust."

"He... he offered me more," Enzo gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. "The Vane assets... he said we could split the city..."

"You sold my husband for a percentage?" I knelt, pressing the hot barrel of my gun against his forehead. "You should have asked for more. Because now, you’re going to pay with every inch of your skin."

I looked up. Marcus Vane was watching from the doorway of the plane. He saw me. He saw Julian walking up behind me. He knew it was over. He tried to pull the door shut, but I signaled to my snipers.

A single shot shattered the hydraulic arm of the plane door. Marcus fell back inside as the stairs buckled.

I turned to Julian. He was standing over Enzo, looking down at the man who had betrayed him.

"Do it," Julian said, his voice cold.

"No," I said, standing up. I looked at Julian, seeing the man he was becoming. "He doesn't get a quick death. Marco! Take him to the 'Special Room.' I’ll deal with him once the sun comes up."

I walked over to the plane, stepping over the bodies. I reached the doorway and looked inside. Marcus was cowering in the plush leather seat of the cabin, the bravado completely gone.

"Julian," I called out.

Julian climbed the broken stairs and stood beside me. He looked at his older brother—the man who had raised him, and the man who had sold him.

"Please," Marcus whimpered. "Julian... we’re blood. You can’t let him do this."

Julian looked at the silver ring on his finger, then at me, and finally at Marcus.

"Blood is just a liquid, Marcus," Julian said, his voice as cold as the grave. "Vows are what matter. And I’ve already made mine."

Julian turned to me. "Burn the plane, Dante. I don't want the drives. I don't want the name. I just want them to know we’re done."

I smiled—a real, terrifying smile. I grabbed Marcus by his collar and threw him out onto the tarmac to be rounded up with Enzo.

I looked at Julian. He was covered in ash, blood, and the weight of a dozen sins. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

"Let’s go home, Julian," I said, wrapping an arm around his waist.

"Is the basement still clean?" he asked, a dark humor in his voice.

"For Enzo? No. For him, I’m going to find somewhere much, much worse."

As we drove away, the airfield went up in a series of controlled explosions. The Vane legacy was finally, truly dead. And in its place, the Moretti reign had become absolute.