Chapter 3 - The Trap at DawnThe private airstrip in upstate New York was little more than a strip of cracked asphalt cutting through a dense, fog-shrouded pine forest. As our Boeing 777 touched down with a heavy, screeching jolt, the eerie silence of the isolated tarmac felt completely wrong for an international flight.
"Stay in your seats," I ordered, my tone leaving no room for argument as I unbuckled my seatbelt.
I didn't wait for the flight attendants to open the cabin door. I stood up, adjusting my jacket, my hand sliding instinctively toward the custom-fitted holster beneath my arm—a habit from my early days on the streets of Brooklyn that I had never entirely abandoned.
"Luca, don't go out there," Elena pleaded, grabbing my wrist with desperate fingers. "There could be a dozen of them."
"Let them come," I replied coldly, looking down at her with a terrifying calm. "Nobody touches my daughter. Nobody."
I turned to Lila, who had taken off her headphones and was watching us with wide, apprehensive eyes. I knelt down beside her seat, forcing my face to soften into a reassuring smile—a smile I hadn't practiced in years.
"Lila," I said gently, taking her small hand in mine. "I need you to stay right here with your mom. Count to one hundred, stay low, and don't look out the window. Can you do that for me?"
She nodded slowly, her lower lip trembling just a fraction. "Are you going to fight the bad guys?"
"I'm going to make sure the bad guys never bother you again," I promised.
I stood up, stepped into the aisle, and walked toward the first-class exit. As the pneumatic doors hissed open and the freezing morning air rushed into the cabin, a dense wall of fog rolled across the tarmac, illuminated only by the flashing red strobe lights of the grounded aircraft.
At the bottom of the portable airstair ramp sat two black, unmarked SUV windows tinted so dark they looked like pools of ink.
I descended the metal steps alone, my leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the wet asphalt. The wind whipped my trench coat around my legs, but I didn't slow my pace. I walked straight toward the lead vehicle, my hand resting casually near my jacket.
Ten feet away, the driver's side door swung open, and a tall man in a heavy tactical jacket stepped out. He wore a wireless earpiece in one ear and smiled coldly as he watched me approach.
"Mr. Moretti," the man said, his voice carrying over the whine of the idling jet engines. "You're a hard man to track down. Always flying private, always moving. But I see you brought extra baggage with you."
"Who sent you?" I asked, my voice dangerously low, cutting through the wind.
"Does it matter?" The man chuckled, resting his hand near his belt where a SIG Sauer pistol was holstered. "The boss wants the woman and the kid back. They've been our insurance policy against your eastern expansion for three years. You hand them over quietly, and we let you fly back to Manhattan in one piece. Try to play hero, and that plane behind you becomes a smoking crater."
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.
"You made one fatal mistake," I said quietly.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What's that?"
"You threatened my family."
In a blur of motion born from decades of surviving the brutal underworld of New York real estate, I drew my weapon and fired twice before he could even clear his holster. The man collapsed against the side of the SUV, tumbling onto the wet asphalt.
Before the second man in the passenger seat could react, I sprinted across the tarmac, wrenched the passenger door open, and dragged him out onto the ground by his collar, pressing the cold barrel of my gun against his temple.
"Talk," I growled, pressing down harder. "Who is your boss?"
The man gasped, staring up at me with absolute terror in his eyes. "It's... it's Viktor Rossi! The Chicago syndicate! He wanted your entire empire, Moretti! He used the woman to keep you paralyzed!"
Viktor Rossi.
My oldest, most vicious rival in the Midwest. For years, I thought he was just fighting me over port authorities and real estate contracts. I never knew he had stolen my bloodline.
"Tell Rossi," I whispered into the man's ear, my voice dripping with absolute ice, "that Luca Moretti is coming to Chicago. And I'm bringing hell with me."
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I struck the man across the temple with the butt of my gun, sending him sprawling into unconsciousness.
As I turned around and walked back toward the airplane, the fog began to clear, revealing the first golden rays of dawn breaking over the treeline. I had my daughter back. I had the truth. And now, it was time to burn my enemies to ash.
