Chapter 4 - The Fortress in Glen Cove
The coastal estate in Glen Cove was built like a modern medieval fortress.
Perched on a rocky bluff overlooking Long Island Sound, surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls topped with security cameras and motion sensors, it was the private retreat of Julian Vance—Valentina’s brother and the shadow broker of the Vance political machine.
It was 2:00 p.m. when a convoy of six black, armored SUVs tore through the iron front gates of the Glen Cove estate without stopping.
The heavy steel gates were torn off their hinges in a shower of sparks and twisted metal as the lead SUV smashed through them at sixty miles an hour.
Dozens of hired mercenaries in black uniforms rushed out onto the manicured lawns, raising assault rifles, but they were instantly pinned down by heavy fire from the Moretti tactical teams deploying from the vehicles.
The battle for the outer courtyard was over in three minutes.
Rocco Moretti stepped out of the central SUV, wearing a heavy black wool overcoat, an assault rifle held casually in his right hand.
Beside him stepped Marco, holding a heavy steel breach door shield, and right behind them was Sophia, wearing her yellow raincoat and holding her mother's hand tightly as they moved under the protective canopy of Rocco’s top soldiers.
"Stay behind Marco, Sophia," Rocco said as they reached the massive oak front doors of the mansion.
"I have my book, Mr. Rocco," Sophia whispered, her eyes wide as she took in the lavish, marble-tiled entrance hall. "The paper said the room was near the indoor pool."
"Clear the ground floor!" Marco roared to his men.
The tactical team moved through the mansion like a wave of black iron, neutralizing guards, clearing corridors, and securing every exit.
Rocco walked straight down the wide service hallway toward the west wing, guided by the floor plan Sophia had sketched from her memory of the stolen adoption papers.
At the end of the corridor stood a reinforced steel security door equipped with an electronic keypad and a biometric eye scanner.
Standing in front of the door was Julian Vance.
Julian was fifty years old, wearing a expensive camel-hair coat, his face slick with sweat, a silver revolver shaking violently in his hand. Beside him stood Valentina Vance, her silk robe replaced by a dark travelling suit, her face twisted in a mask of hysterical fury.
"STAY BACK, ROCCO!" Julian shrieked, aiming the revolver at Rocco’s chest. "STAY BACK OR I BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!"
Rocco didn't even slow his pace. He walked directly toward the barrel of the gun, his face completely devoid of fear.
"You took my son, Julian," Rocco said, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying quiet. "You stole eight years of my life."
"He’s not your son! He’s an asset!" Valentina spat, stepping out from behind her brother, her eyes wild. "You were going to give everything to your cousin Dante! I saved this family! I built the Vance alliance!"
"You put a newborn infant in my trash, Valentina," Rocco said, stopping five feet away. "You are not a savior. You are a monster."
Julian panicked, pulling the trigger of his revolver.
CLICK.
The gun jammed.
Before Julian could rack the slide, Marco lunged forward, striking Julian across the face with the heavy steel riot shield. Julian crumpled to the floor with a shattered nose, dropping his weapon.
Valentina screamed, backing against the reinforced steel door, reaching wildly for a small knife in her purse.
Sophia stepped forward from behind Marco.
She looked at the electronic keypad on the wall beside Valentina’s head.
"The code isn't numbers," Sophia said softly, pointing her pencil at the keypad. "It’s the date on the blanket."
Rocco looked at the keypad.
Eight years ago. October 14th. 10 - 14 - 08.
Rocco reached past the weeping Valentina and punched the six digits into the glowing keypad.
The heavy steel lock chimed green.
THUNK.
The heavy steel door swung open slowly, revealing a bright, sunlit playroom filled with toys, books, an easel with watercolor paintings, and a large bay window looking out over the blue waters of the Sound.
Sitting at a small wooden desk in the center of the room was an eight-year-old boy.
He had thick, dark hair, strong jawline features, and wide, intelligent gray eyes that were an exact, startling mirror image of Rocco Moretti’s own eyes.
The boy held a paintbrush in his hand, looking up at the doorway with quiet, curious wonder.
Rocco dropped his rifle to the floor.
The heavy weapon clattered loudly against the tiles, but Rocco didn't hear it. He stumbled forward into the playroom, his knees shaking, tears blinding his vision as he looked at the son he had mourned for nearly a decade.
"Leo..." Rocco breathed, his voice breaking completely. "My boy..."
The eight-year-old boy set his paintbrush down. He looked at the tall man standing in his doorway, then at the gold Saint Michael medallion hanging from Rocco’s neck—the same medallion that matched the small silver drawing the boy had kept under his pillow for eight years.
May you like
"Are you my father?" the boy asked softly.
Rocco dropped to both knees on the wooden floor, opening his arms wide, weeping unashamedly as his lost son ran across the room and threw his arms around his neck.
