Chapter 8 - The Betrayal Beneath the Sabatini Mansion
Antonio Sabatini looked exactly like his portrait.
Only older.
Crueler.
And very much alive.
He stood above the ballroom holding a pistol while guests screamed beneath the broken chandelier.
Victor stepped in front of me.
“Father.”
Antonio smiled.
“My boy.”
The words made my stomach twist.
Victor didn't move.
“You should be dead.”
Antonio laughed.
“That's no way to greet your father.”
Rocco appeared near the staircase.
His gun was drawn.
Antonio looked at him.
“Rocco.”
The security chief froze.
For one moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Then Antonio said, “You disappoint me.”
Rocco raised his weapon.
“It's over.”
Antonio's smile widened.
“No.”
He snapped his fingers.
The lights went out.
Gunfire erupted.
Victor grabbed my hand.
“Move!”
We ran toward the service corridor.
Behind us, men shouted.
Glass shattered.
Somebody screamed for help.
Victor pushed open a narrow door and pulled me inside.
Darkness.
Concrete stairs.
The smell of damp stone.
“Where are we going?”
“Old wine cellar.”
“Why?”
“Because my father built this house with escape routes.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course he did.”
We descended.
Above us, footsteps thundered.
Victor stopped at a steel door.
Entered a code.
The lock clicked.
He pushed me inside.
Then followed.
The room beyond wasn't a wine cellar.
It was an underground office.
Computer monitors.
Steel cabinets.
A wall of security feeds.
And one enormous desk.
Victor stared.
“What the hell?”
I looked around.
“This isn't yours?”
“No.”
He approached the desk.
A photograph stood beside the computer.
Two boys.
One older.
One younger.
Both smiling.
Victor picked it up.
His expression changed.
“Gabriel.”
I stepped closer.
“Who?”
“My brother.”
I stared.
“You have a brother?”
Victor looked at me.
“Had.”
The word landed heavily.
“He died when I was twelve.”
I looked at the photograph.
The younger boy had Victor's dark eyes.
The older one had the same sharp jaw.
“How?”
Victor swallowed.
“Car accident.”
I looked at the computers.
At the hidden room.
At the photograph.
Then at him.
“Victor.”
He turned.
“What if he didn't?”
The computer required a password.
Victor tried three.
All failed.
Then I noticed something carved into the wooden desk.
A tiny falcon.
Its wings spread.
Exactly like my pendant.
I touched it.
“Victor.”
He came closer.
I pressed the carving.
A drawer opened.
Inside was a keycard.
And a handwritten note.
The truth was never buried. Only locked away.
Victor stared at it.
Then looked at the computer.
He inserted the card.
The screen changed.
Folders appeared.
Hundreds.
Financial records.
Photographs.
Videos.
Names.
Dates.
Then one folder caught my attention.
PROJECT PHOENIX.
Victor opened it.
A video appeared.
The timestamp read October 17, 2006.
The night of the fire.
The footage showed a hallway.
Smoke.
Men running.
Then a woman appeared.
Isabella.
Victor's mother.
She carried a small child.
Me.
Behind her stood Marcella.
My mother.
They were arguing with a man.
Antonio.
Victor leaned closer.
His breathing changed.
The audio crackled.
Isabella's voice emerged.
“You promised you wouldn't hurt the children.”
Antonio laughed.
“Children grow into enemies.”
Marcella screamed.
“Give me my daughter!”
Then another man entered the frame.
Salvatore DeLuca.
My father.
He was younger.
But unmistakable.
He grabbed Antonio's arm.
“Enough. We agreed to take the ledger, not kill them.”
Antonio shoved him away.
“Then you should have brought it.”
Isabella moved toward the stairs.
Antonio raised his gun.
Victor made a strangled sound.
The video continued.
A shot.
Isabella fell.
I screamed.
Marcella lunged toward me.
Smoke filled the frame.
Then the recording ended.
Victor stared at the screen.
His entire body trembled.
“My father killed her.”
I touched his arm.
“Victor.”
He stepped away.
“My father murdered my mother.”
His voice broke.
Then he slammed his fist into the desk.
Once.
Hard.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Stop.”
He looked at me.
His eyes were full of tears.
I held his hand.
“Don't let him take anything else from you.”
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then he pulled me into his arms.
And finally cried.
We stayed like that until footsteps sounded outside.
Victor released me.
Drew his pistol.
The door opened.
Rocco entered.
Blood stained his sleeve.
“Boss.”
Victor stepped forward.
“Where's Antonio?”
“Gone.”
“Salvatore?”
“Alive. Barely. Paramedics have him.”
I looked up.
My father was alive.
I didn't know whether to feel relieved.
Rocco glanced at the computer.
His expression changed.
“You found it.”
Victor turned slowly.
“You knew this room existed?”
Rocco said nothing.
Victor raised his gun.
“Answer me.”
Rocco swallowed.
“Yes.”
I stepped backward.
Victor's voice was deadly.
“How long?”
“Twenty years.”
Silence.
Then Victor whispered, “You watched me mourn her.”
Rocco looked down.
“I was ordered to keep quiet.”
“By my father.”
“Yes.”
Victor's hand trembled.
Rocco continued.
“But I wasn't the only one.”
Victor stared.
“What does that mean?”
Rocco looked at the photograph on the desk.
The two boys.
Victor.
Gabriel.
Then he whispered, “Your brother didn't die in that accident.”
Victor froze.
Rocco swallowed.
“Gabriel has been running your father's operations for years.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
Victor's face went blank.
“My brother?”
Rocco nodded.
“He's alive.”
Then every monitor in the room flickered.
A man's face appeared.
Dark hair.
Sharp jaw.
Victor's eyes.
Older than the boy in the photograph.
But unmistakable.
May you like
Gabriel Sabatini smiled.
“Hello, little brother.”
