Chapter 4 - The Traitor in the Inner Circle
Victor Moretti had served the DeLuca family for thirty-five years. He had carried Lorenzo on his shoulders when Lorenzo was just a boy. When Lorenzo’s father had been assassinated by the Chicago outfit, it was Victor who had handed Lorenzo his first pistol and taught him how to lead without hesitation.
To discover that the snake had been sleeping in his own garden was a poison sharper than any blade.
"Marco," Lorenzo said, his voice flat, emotion stripped entirely from his eyes. "Tell me Victor is still downstairs."
Marco checked the handheld monitor. "He's in the cigar lounge, Don Lorenzo. Speaking with the Capos from Brooklyn. He thinks it’s just another memorial night."
"Good." Lorenzo turned to Clara. "Marco will escort you and Emma to the private bunker beneath the wine cellar. There are provisions, beds, and reinforced titanium locks. You do not open that door for anyone other than me or Marco. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Don Lorenzo. Thank you," Clara breathed, picking up Emma.
Emma looked back at Lorenzo as she was carried toward the hidden door behind the bookshelf. "Find the baby, Mr. Lorenzo," she piped up in her innocent voice. "She cries in the dark."
Those words struck Lorenzo like a blow to the solar plexus. He nodded once, solemnly. "I will bring her home, Emma. I promise."
Once the secret door clicked shut, Lorenzo turned to Marco. "Summon Dr. Callahan. Tell him I have experienced severe chest pains from the stress of the evening and need him in the medical suite immediately."
"And Victor?"
"Victor will wait. First, I need the location of my daughter. Callahan will give it to me, or I will peel his skin off millimeter by millimeter."
Ten minutes later, Dr. Robert Callahan—a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties with silver hair and gold-rimmed spectacles—was escorted into Lorenzo’s secondary office on the third floor. He carried a leather medical bag, his face plastered with professional concern.
"Lorenzo, my boy! Marco said you were having palpitations—"
Callahan stopped. The door locked behind him with an ominous click.
Lorenzo was sitting behind a bare steel table. On top of the table sat a pair of bone-cutting pliers, an industrial blowtorch, and the tiny plastic hospital band bearing Elena’s name.
Callahan’s face went gray. His medical bag slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
"Sit down, Robert," Lorenzo said softly.
"Lorenzo... I don't understand—"
In a blur of lethal speed, Lorenzo was across the room. His hand clamped around Callahan’s throat, lifting the grown man off his feet and slamming him against the reinforced concrete wall. Callahan wheezed, clawing at Lorenzo’s iron grip as his feet dangled six inches off the ground.
"My daughter," Lorenzo whispered, his voice vibrating with the fury of a thousand demons. "Where is she?"
"She's... she's dead, Lorenzo... the fire..." Callahan choked out.
Lorenzo dropped him, then immediately planted his heavy combat boot squarely on Callahan’s left hand, grinding the bones of his fingers against the floor until a sickening crunch echoed in the room.
Callahan shrieked in agony. "Stop! God, please, stop!"
"You delivered her," Lorenzo said, leaning down, his face inches from the weeping doctor. "You handed her to Victor’s men while my wife died in the next room. Give me an address, Robert. You have ten seconds before I light the blowtorch. Ten. Nine. Eight..."
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"Pinehurst!" Callahan screamed, tears and snot pouring down his face. "Pinehurst Estate in Connecticut! A private foster cabin near the Berkshires! Victor kept her alive as insurance—in case you ever tried to push him out of the family business! She’s alive! God forgive me, she’s alive!"
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