Chapter 21 - The Master’s Whistle
The tension on the terrace was a razor wire stretched to the absolute limit. One twitch, one misfire from an anxious finger, and the marble courtyard would transform into an abattoir.
"You're trespassing, old man," Luca said, his voice dropping into that quiet, lethal register that made even hardened cartel bosses cross the street to avoid him. He raised his Kimber, leveling the barrel squarely between Salvatore’s eyes. "I don't give a damn whose blood runs in my veins. You walked out on this family twenty-two years ago. This house, these men, this city—they answer to me."
Salvatore didn't flinch. He didn't even reach for a weapon. Instead, he pulled a small, tarnished silver whistle from his waistcoat pocket—an antique handler's whistle used for war dogs.
He placed it between his lips and blew.
The sound was high, piercing, and eerily shrill, vibrating against the stone walls.
Down in the courtyard, Barnaby froze. The massive, grizzled dog stiffened as if struck by lightning. Every hair along his graying spine stood on end. He let out a low, mournful howl—a sound torn from the deepest memories of his puppyhood.
"Come, Cerberus," Salvatore commanded softly, slipping the whistle back into his vest. "Come to your master."
Barnaby took two hesitant steps toward the old man. My heart stopped. Barnaby was the soul of this estate. He was the reason I was still alive; he was the dog Luca had knelt before when his treacherous ex-fiancée tried to have him killed. If Salvatore could take Barnaby, he could take everything.
"Barnaby, no!" I screamed, breaking protocol, leaning over the terrace railing. "Barnaby, look at me! Stay!"
The old dog stopped. His amber eyes flicked between me and Salvatore. Salvatore’s gaze shifted upward, locking onto me for the first time. Those ice-blue eyes bore into my soul with an intensity that made the breath catch in my throat.
"And who is this little bird?" Salvatore murmured, tilting his head with amused disdain. "A maid speaking out of turn in the house of Moretti? In my day, a servant who dared raise her voice in the courtyard would have her tongue cut out before sundown."
"She stays," Luca barked, stepping directly in front of me, shielding my body with his broad shoulders. "And the dog stays. You don't give orders here, Father. Look around you. These men took blood oaths to me. Not to a ghost."
Salvatore smirked, tapping his cane once against the stone. "Did they?"
From behind us, on the upper balcony, a sudden metallic click echoed through the chilly air.
Daniel, who had been standing guard beside the terrace doors, did not aim his weapon at Salvatore. Slowly, deliberately, Daniel swung the barrel of his Glock toward the back of Luca’s head.
"Daniel?" Clara gasped, stumbling backward against the French doors. "What are you doing?!"
Daniel’s face was like granite, devoid of emotion, though his hands trembled slightly. "I'm sorry, Boss," Daniel whispered, his voice thick with regret. "Before I worked for you, my father served Don Salvatore. We swear oaths to the bloodline that began the dynasty. Salvatore saved my family from the winter famines of ninety-eight. I cannot draw against my Don."
Across the courtyard, half a dozen veteran capos shifted their stances. The courtyard split right down the center. Brothers turned on brothers, cousins locked eyes down the sights of assault rifles, and the legendary Moretti empire cracked wide open along fault lines carved decades ago.
May you like
Salvatore smiled, stepping into the shadow of the portico. "Blood always answers to blood, Luca. Lower your weapon, or you won't live to see the sunset."
***
