Chapter 3 - The Ticking Wrist
Ryan didn't move.
The silence in the room stretched so thin that the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a sledgehammer striking wood.
“Alessandro, don't be ridiculous,” Ryan said, forcing a hollow, nervous laugh that died instantly in his throat. “Are you seriously implying that I’m the one blackmailing your bride? I’m your brother!”
“Stepbrother,” I corrected softly. “And you are wearing a vintage Patek Philippe Reference 1518. A mechanical perpetual calendar chronograph with an unlubricated escapement wheel. It ticks at 18,000 vibrations per hour. It is one of only four ever made in steel.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. A faint bead of sweat broke out along his hairline near his right temple.
“Lots of men wear expensive watches, Alessandro—”
“Take your hand out of your pocket, Ryan,” Luca barked, stepping up behind him.
Luca didn't wait for permission. He reached forward with a hand as big as a shovel, grabbed Ryan’s right forearm, and twisted it behind his back with effortless, practiced violence.
“Get your hands off me, you old butcher!” Ryan shrieked, struggling against Luca’s iron grip.
With his free hand, Luca grabbed Ryan’s left wrist and pulled his arm out into the light of the fire.
On Ryan’s wrist was the silver Patek Philippe watch.
And clamped around his forearm, hidden beneath the tailored sleeve of his French-cuff shirt, was a thick strap holding a small digital audio recording device wired directly into his inner pocket.
I walked over, reached out, and snapped the wire with two fingers. I pulled the recorder out of his pocket and held it up to the firelight. The red light on top of the device was blinking—recording every word that had been spoken in that study for the last twenty minutes.
“He was live-streaming the room,” Luca growled, pressing his thumb into the nerve cluster behind Ryan’s ear until the younger man dropped to his knees on the rug.
“Who were you transmitting to, Ryan?” I asked, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion.
Ryan sneered up at me, his handsome face twisting into a venomous mask. The polished, educated facade he had maintained for ten years peeled away in an instant.
“You think you’re so smart, don't you, Alessandro?” Ryan spat, a sliver of saliva catching on his lip. “You think because our father gave you the ring and the title that you’re the only one worthy of running this family? You’re a dinosaur! You’re an ignorant thug who thinks brute force and loyalty can protect us in the twenty-first century!”
“Who is on the other end of that wire, Ryan?” I repeated.
Ryan laughed—a harsh, barking sound. “Find out yourself! But it doesn't matter now! The call was routed to a server in Montreal. The moment the feed went dead, my associates received the command. Vanessa’s pathetic father is already dead in his hospital bed!”
Vanessa let out a blood-curdling shriek of agony, falling from her chair onto the floor, clutching her head in her hands as she wept hysterically.
I didn't blink.
I reached into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out my encrypted satellite phone, and pressed a speed-dial button. I placed the phone on speaker and set it on the mahogany desk.
The phone rang twice.
A voice answered with a heavy French-Canadian accent. “Monsieur Moretti. We are in position inside the Saint-Laurent Private Clinic in Montreal.”
Ryan’s eyes went wide. His laughter instantly died.
“Report,” I ordered into the phone.
“We secured room 408 ten minutes ago, Boss,” the operative reported calmly. “Two armed guards belonging to the Chenier syndicate were neutralized outside the door. Dr. Tremblay has stabilized Mr. Hale. He is secure, conscious, and currently being loaded into our medical transport unit bound for the private air strip.”
Ryan gasped, his face draining of every drop of color. “No… that’s impossible! How did you know about the clinic?!”
I looked down at Ryan with pure, unadulterated contempt.
“You forgot one basic rule, stepbrother,” I said softly. “Sophia Rossi bakes bread every morning at four o’clock. But her daughter Emma isn't the only person who wanders the estate at night.”
I walked over to the desk, picked up my scotch, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
“Luca noticed you visiting the service gate three weeks ago,” I continued. “We didn't know why you were meeting Vanessa yet, so I had my team trace your financial transactions through your Montreal shell accounts. We located Vanessa’s father four days ago. We left your guards in place so you wouldn't panic before the wedding.”
Ryan sat on the floor, paralyzed with shock, staring at me as if he were looking at a ghost.
“You… you set this whole thing up?” Ryan stammered.
“I didn't know Vanessa was the one being blackmailed until Emma ran down that aisle today,” I said. “The child didn't ruin my wedding, Ryan. She saved my wife’s life… and she handed me your head on a silver platter.”
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I looked at Luca.
“Take him to the basement storage beneath the boathouse,” I commanded. “And bring Enzo Bellini and Dominic down as well. I want the entire family to see what happens to a traitor who threatens a Moretti bride.”
