Chapter 5 - The Loyal Few
I pushed myself up off the cold marble floor, my body trembling violently from adrenaline and physical exhaustion.
The immediate threat of Aldo was gone, trapped in the subterranean darkness beneath the estate, but the mansion was still crawling with mercenaries he had hired over the past two months under the guise of "estate security."
I needed help. Real help.
I stumbled out of the master suite, using the gilded wall for support, making my way down the service stairs toward the kitchen complex where Elena had taken Giulia.
The kitchen was dark, lit only by the soft glow of the commercial refrigerators. I pulled open the heavy steel door of the pantry.
Elena was sitting on a crate of flour, clutching Giulia tightly in her arms. In her right hand, she was holding a heavy cast-iron skillet, her eyes wide with desperate panic.
When she saw me standing in the doorway, bleeding from my forehead where I had hit the wall during the struggle, her jaw dropped.
"Mr. Castellano!" she gasped, setting the skillet down. "Where... where is Mr. Manfredi?"
"Aldo won't be disturbing us again," I said, my raspy voice dropping into an iron tone. "Elena... you and your daughter saved my life today. If Giulia hadn't noticed the black dust and the shoes, I would have been dead by morning."
Elena’s eyes filled with tears as she hugged Giulia closer. "I was so scared, sir. I saw Mr. Manfredi coming out of the west wing corridor three nights ago at 3:00 a.m. I wanted to tell you... but he threatened to hurt Giulia if I ever spoke a word."
My anger flared, cold and lethal. Aldo had terrorized an innocent mother and child to protect his pathetic treason.
"No one is going to hurt you or your daughter ever again, Elena," I swore, looking her directly in the eyes. "I give you my solemn word as Dario Castellano."
I turned toward the service phone mounted on the kitchen wall. I picked up the receiver and dialed a private, unlisted satellite number that only three people in the world possessed.
The line rang twice before a deep, gravelly voice answered on the third ring.
"Speak."
"Marco," I said softly. "It's Dario."
A heavy silence hung on the line for three full seconds. Marco Rossellini was my oldest friend—a retired tactical commander who had stepped down from active family business five years ago to run a private security firm in upstate New York. He was the only man in the syndicate whose loyalty had never been bought, sold, or questioned.
"Dario?" Marco’s voice rose with genuine shock. "The reports from NYC say you're on death's door... they said you couldn't speak—"
"I was being poisoned, Marco," I interrupted bluntly. "By Aldo Manfredi. He tried to execute a coup tonight. He has half a dozen mercenaries holding the perimeter of my estate."
I heard the sharp sound of a heavy slide racking on a tactical firearm over the phone line.
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"Give me forty-five minutes, Dario," Marco said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, cold lethal promise. "I'm bringing my primary strike team. Hold the house."
"Hurry, Marco," I said. "Because Aldo's men are going to realize very soon that their boss isn't coming back up from the basement."
