The Brother’s Keeper

“Dante,” I said, gently lifting Mia into my arms and carrying her out of the freezing cell.

“Boss?” Dante’s face was dark with lethal fury. He loved this family as much as I did; betrayal from within was an insult to every man who had bled to keep us safe.

“Get Dr. Sterling up here through the back service entrance. Quietly. Put two men outside Mia’s room, and two men guarding Harper in the kitchen. If anyone—anybody at all—tries to approach them, put a bullet in their chest before they take a second step.”

“Consider it done,” Dante said, stepping forward to help carry Mia up the steep stone stairs. “What about Victor?”

“Leave Victor to me,” I replied.

We brought Mia up to a secure guest suite on the second floor, far away from the main family quarters. Within twenty minutes, our private physician arrived, looking grim as he began administering IV fluids and examining her injuries. Harper was brought up shortly after, weeping softly with relief when she saw her mother alive in the bed.

I stood in the hallway outside the bedroom door, watching through the glass panel as Harper curled up beside her mother, fast asleep against Mia’s uninjured shoulder.

The warmth in my chest was entirely gone, replaced by an absolute, terrifying emptiness.

Seventeen years at the head of the Moretti family had taught me one unyielding rule: loyalty is the only currency that matters. When someone counterfeits it, you don't argue with them. You don't negotiate. You eradicate them.

I turned away from the glass, buttoned my coat, and walked down the long, silent corridor toward the main study on the third floor.

The door was ajar. A warm, yellow light spilled out onto the Persian rug. Soft jazz played from a vintage phonograph in the corner, and the rich, familiar scent of expensive bourbon drifted out into the hall.

Inside, sitting behind my mahogany desk, was Victor Romano.

He was pouring a glass of scotch, wearing a charcoal cashmere sweater, looking every bit the refined, successful executive and loyal brother he had pretended to be for a decade.

“Marco,” Victor said without looking up, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “You’re back late. How was the Sicilian delegation? Did the port negotiations go according to plan?”