Chapter 8 - The Strike
For seven years, Sophia Moretti had been a ghost wandering the halls of a mausoleum.
She stood now with her feet planted wide, her shoulders squared, holding the heavy steel pistol in a two-handed tactical grip that Santiago had taught her when she was ten years old, before the dark lake had taken their parents.
Cassano’s eyes widened in disbelief. "What is this?"
Sophia did not sign. She did not look at the writing slates or the electronic tablets.
Her hazel eyes locked onto Matteo Cassano with a burning, incandescent fury that had simmered beneath the surface of her silence for seven long years.
Cassano shifted his revolver toward the girl. "Put the gun down, little girl, or—"
Sophia didn't hesitate.
She pulled the trigger.
The deafening roar of the .45 round ripped through the small study. The bullet struck Cassano high in the right shoulder, the kinetic impact spinning him backward against the shattered window frame, his revolver flying from his grip and clattering across the glass-strewn floor.
Cassano screamed, clutching his mangled shoulder, his back slamming into the brick sill.
Santiago moved like a panther. In a fraction of a second, he crossed the room, his heavy hand closing around Cassano’s throat, slamming the mob boss’s head against the brickwork until the plaster cracked.
Santiago shoved the barrel of his shotgun beneath Cassano’s chin, forcing his head back.
"You brought a war to my home," Santiago whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute, terminal authority. "You touched my family seven years ago. You burned a clinic three years ago. And tonight, you entered my house."
"Santiago... wait..." Cassano choked out, blood bubbling past his lips.
"No more waiting," Santiago said.
Santiago did not pull the trigger. He brought the heavy butt of the shotgun down across Cassano’s jaw with bone-crushing force, knocking the man instantly into unconsciousness. Cassano slumped onto the floor in a heap of blood and tailored wool.
Tomas appeared in the doorway, his assault rifle lowered, three guards behind him. He took one look at Cassano on the floor, then at Sophia standing with the smoking pistol.
"Take this piece of garbage to the basement," Santiago commanded without looking back. "Call the federal prosecutor on the secure line. Tell him we have the missing evidence from the Vance Institute fire, and we have Matteo Cassano tied to a chair. If the prosecutor doesn't want to show up, tell him Cassano will be delivered to his front lawn in three separate boxes."
"Understood, boss," Tomas said. He waved two men forward, who dragged Cassano’s limp body out of the study like a sack of wet salt.
Santiago turned around slowly.
The room smelled of cordite, blood, and cold rain blowing through the shattered window.
Sophia was still standing in the center of the room, the heavy pistol lowering toward the floor, her breath coming in ragged, violent gasps. The adrenaline was leaving her, and the shock was beginning to set in. Her knees buckled.
Ruby scrambled forward from the floor, catching Sophia around the waist before she hit the hardwood.
The gun clattered harmlessly away.
Sophia collapsed into Ruby’s arms, her small hands clutching the green cashmere sweater with desperate, violent intensity, burying her face into the curve of Ruby’s neck.
Ruby held her tightly, rocking her back and forth, whispering soothing, broken words into her hair. "It’s over, Sophia. It’s over. You're safe. I've got you. I'm right here."
Santiago walked over and dropped to his knees beside them.
He reached out, his large, trembling hand resting on his sister’s back, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart.
Sophia turned her head. Through her tears, her eyes found Santiago’s face.
She raised her right hand, her fingers trembling violently, and formed three swift, unmistakable signs:
*I. Chose. Live.*
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Santiago closed his eyes, a single, hot tear cutting a clean path through the soot on his cheek. He pulled both of them into his arms—his broken, triumphant sister and the woman who had walked through hell to bring her back.
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