Chapter 8 - The Viper's Venom
The silence in the grand foyer was shattered by a sudden, manic bark of laughter.
Dante’s hands dropped from the air. His posture shifted, the trembling panic vanishing entirely, replaced by the ugly, arrogant sneer of a cornered beast that knew its disguise had been ripped away. He looked at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot, ignoring the barrel of my gun leveled between his eyes.
"So you finally figured it out, Lorenzo!" Dante spat, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "You think you're so untouchable, sitting on your throne, talking about honor and family while you treat men like me as high-class attack dogs! Do you know what Petrov offered me? A full fifty-percent equity stake in the Mediterranean transit routes! Not a salary, not a bone thrown from your table—true ownership!"
"You sold my brother's life for Russian coin," I said, every word dripping with absolute ice. "You ate at my table. You held my mother's coffin at her funeral while you were actively plotting to poison her remaining sons."
"Your time is over, Lorenzo!" Dante screamed, his face turning crimson. "The old ways are dead! Men don't rule by blood and honor anymore; they rule by billions! Even if you kill me right now, Petrov’s assassins are already moving on the clinic in Geneva! You’re too late!"
That was his fatal mistake. He thought the mention of my brother would paralyze me with grief or panic. He forgot who built this empire.
Before Dante could even shift his weight to lunge for the secondary weapon concealed in his dressing gown pocket, I moved.
I did not pull the trigger. A bullet was far too merciful for a traitor of this magnitude.
I stepped forward and brought the heavy steel frame of my Sig Sauer crashing across his jaw with the full, violent force of my body. The sickening crack of fracturing bone echoed through the hall as Dante was swept off his feet, crashing heavily onto the marble floor.
He groaned, spitting a mouthful of blood and broken teeth onto the pristine white stone, trying desperately to scramble backward. But Silvio and Matteo were already upon him. They dragged him up by his collar, pinning his arms behind his back with ruthless efficiency, forcing him to his knees before me.
I looked down at him, my face entirely devoid of human emotion. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my primary phone, dialing a number I had established three days ago when my internal security sweeps first detected an anomaly in our Swiss communications.
The line clicked open on the second ring.
"Commander," the voice of Luc, the head of my private Swiss tactical detachment, answered calmly over the speaker.
"What is the status of Room 412 at the Geneva clinic?" I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on Dante's bleeding, terrified face.
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"Target secured, Signor D’Angelo," Luc reported cleanly. "The compromised nurse and two Russian operatives attempted to enter the wing twenty minutes ago. They have been neutralized. Your brother has been moved to a secure, underground military facility. The detox protocol has already begun. The physicians assure us that without the weekly toxin injections, his motor functions will begin recovering within the month."
Dante’s eyes widened in absolute, despairing horror. He slumped against Silvio's grip, realizing that his grand conspiracy had been completely dismantled.
