Chapter 8 - The Hostage Trade
The penthouse was no longer a sanctuary. It was a war room.
Maps of the five boroughs were spread across the black granite desk in Aleandro’s library. Heavy weapon cases lay open on the Persian rugs, revealing tactical rifles, ceramic-plated body armor, and military-grade communication gear. Silvio was barking orders into two separate satellite phones, his face gray with fury, while twenty heavily armed syndicate soldiers moved through the corridors like shadows.
I stood by the window, the emerald necklace discarded on a side table, shivering in my cashmere sweater despite the roaring hearth.
Leo.
The sixteen-year-old boy whose heartbeat I had fought to keep alive on a bloody trauma bay gurney was back in the clutches of death. And it was my fault. If Aleandro hadn't intervened in my life, if he hadn't dragged Ryan to that restaurant, Moretti would never have had the opening to strike at the Raldi family’s greatest vulnerability.
"Drink this."
Elena appeared at my elbow, pressing a glass of water into my hands. Her wrinkled face was tight with worry, but her hands were steady. "Do not blame yourself, child. Salvatore Moretti has been looking for a reason to spark a war for ten years. If it wasn't you, it would have been a shipment of freight or a disputed casino license."
"He took a child, Elena," I whispered, my voice breaking.
Before she could answer, the satellite phone on Aleandro’s desk let out a single, piercing ring.
The entire room fell dead silent. Soldiers froze in their tracks. Silvio stopped mid-sentence, lowering his handset.
Aleandro walked to the desk. He looked down at the glowing screen for three seconds, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles bunched like iron cables. He pressed the speaker button.
"Aleandro," Salvatore Moretti’s raspy voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the faint, rhythmic sound of ocean waves crashing against wood. "I trust you enjoyed your pasta tonight."
"If a single hair on Leo’s head is harmed, Salvatore," Aleandro said, his voice horrifyingly calm, devoid of all emotion, "I will not just kill you. I will slaughter every man who carries your surname. I will salt the earth your ancestors are buried under."
A harsh, wheezing laugh echoed across the line.
"Brave words for a big brother whose family is hanging by a thread," Moretti sneered. "Leo is alive. For now. He is sitting on a damp chair in an old bait warehouse out by the salt marshes in Jamaica Bay. But he is bleeding, Aleandro. His chest wound from six months ago... my boys might have opened it up a little during the pickup."
Nausea surged violently into my throat. The surgical graft. If the scar tissue over his subclavian artery tore, Leo would bleed out internally in less than an hour.
"What do you want?" Aleandro demanded.
"The port terminal at Red Hook," Moretti said, dropping the theatrical pleasantries. "All commercial rights, all shipping manifests, and your complete withdrawal from Brooklyn. Transferred to my corporate holding entity by sunrise."
"Done," Aleandro said without a heartbeat of hesitation.
"And one more thing," Moretti added, his tone turning oily, sadistic. "The girl."
My heart stopped.
"No," Aleandro growled, his knuckles turning stark white against the granite desk.
"You brought a civilian into a family dispute, Aleandro. You showed the entire city that the great Don Raldi has a soft spot for a battered little hospital nurse." Moretti laughed darkly. "Ryan Vance is here with me. He’s very eager to settle his personal account with her. Bring the signed transfer deeds and the girl to the abandoned pier off Channel Road in Jamaica Bay. Two o'clock sharp. You come with two men only. If I see a single scout car within a mile of the marsh, Leo’s body goes into the bay with thirty pounds of scrap iron tied to his ankles."
The call clicked dead.
Aleandro stared at the silent phone. The silence in the library was absolute, suffocating, unbearable.
"Silvio," Aleandro whispered, his voice trembling with an unnatural, terrifying rage. "Mobilize the outer crews. Call the Greeks in Queens. Call the Russians in Brighton Beach. We take every gun we possess and we level Jamaica Bay."
"Boss, wait!" Silvio stepped forward, spreading his hands in desperate appeal. "If we move a battalion into the marsh, Moretti’s spotters will see the headlights five miles out! They will execute Leo the second they hear an engine! You heard what he said about the chest wound—the boy doesn't have time for a siege!"
"Then what do you propose?!" Aleandro roared, sweeping his arm across the desk, sending ceramic lamps and crystal decanters shattering against the marble floor. "You want me to trade her?! You want me to hand Amanda over to that rabid animal?!"
"Aleandro."
I stepped out from the shadows of the window.
My voice was quiet, but it pierced through the wreckage of the room like a silver needle.
Every soldier in the room turned to look at me. Aleandro froze, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wild with a torment that tore at my heart.
"I'm going," I said.
"No," Aleandro snapped instantly, crossing the room toward me. "You will not set foot near that marsh. I will burn this city to ash before I let Ryan Vance lay a finger on you again."
"Listen to me!" I grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, forcing him to look down into my eyes. The fear that had paralyzed me for months was completely gone, replaced by the cold, razor-sharp clarity that takes over a critical care nurse when a code blue is called.
"You heard what Moretti said," I urged, holding his furious gaze. "Leo is bleeding from his old surgical site. If his subclavian artery is compromised, he has forty minutes at most. Your tactical teams can't save him. Your guns can't clot his blood. But I can."
Aleandro’s expression fractured. "Amanda, you don't know what Moretti does to hostages—"
"I know what happens when an artery ruptures, Aleandro!" I pleaded, tears finally spilling over my lashes. "You said a life for a life. You told me I saved your brother once. Let me save him again! Bring me to the pier. Bring your signed deeds. Use me as the distraction to buy your snipers time to take position."
Aleandro stared down at me, his jaw trembling, torn between the ruthless leader who needed to save his bloodline and the man who had just confessed his love in the dark of a garage.
May you like
"If anything happens to you..." he whispered, his large hand cupping the side of my face, his voice cracking with unbearable anguish.
"Nothing will," I promised, leaning into his touch for one brief, fleeting second. "Because I know you'll be right behind me."
