Page 46 of Ivory Crown

“Enough,” I interjected before things could escalate further. “We stick to the plan. Keep your eyes on our enemies, not each other.”

“That’s adorable, Moretti,” Giovanni said. “What are we? Best friends?”

“There’s a reason we’re working together. You want to earn money from these routes, don’t you?”

“Speaking of routes,” Giovanni started, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “When are those clinics and labs Marco promised me going to be up and running? I’m losing money here, Dante.”

“We have several already up and running,” I said. “I just need to make sure the routes are fully established before I can add product to them. You know that. There’s inventory to take care of and we have to make it seem legit. That’s the thing about this that’ll make it work, that it’ll look good under scrutiny. But you know things like this take time.”

“The delay is eating into my profits.”

I clenched my jaw, knowing he had a point. Marco had been preoccupied with other responsibilities, security measures mainly, to ensure our family’s protection. But this was a valid concern. One that I had to address promptly.

But this was Lorenzo Caruso’s fault. There was no way Giovanni didn’t know that.

“Our work has been tied up dealing with other matters,” I managed to keep my voice steady, non-confrontational. “But I assure you, it’s a priority for us too. It’ll be sorted soon.”

Giovanni sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why did you have to clip Bruno?” he asked. “He was family…”

“I didn’t—“

I didn’t get a chance to defend myself. The stillness of the room shattered like glass as chaos erupted around us. Giovanni reached for his gun, and he was speaking before I could process what he was saying. “Deal’s off, Moretti,” he said.

His men made their move.

Bullets whizzed through the air, their metallic pings off the crates creating a deadly symphony. I ducked instinctively, scanning for Marco. My brother was a few feet away from me, his gun in hand, returning fire with trained precision.

“Marco!” I shouted over the chaos, trying to reach him.

But then he staggered backward, his face contorted in pain. Blood blossomed across his shirt, spreading rapidly. It was a striking, grotesque contrast to the white fabric.

“Shit,” I cursed under my breath, my instincts kicking in full throttle. I lunged forward, grappling Marco by the waist and throwing his arm over my shoulder. His weight bore down on me, but adrenaline fueled my muscles, giving me strength I didn’t know I possessed.

I was vaguely aware of the fact that they had stopped shooting and how now started to disperse.

“Come on, brother,” I grunted, half-dragging, half-carrying him toward the back exit. Each step was punctuated by the metallic taste of fear and desperation in my mouth.

We stumbled through the maze of crates, dodging bullets and stepping over bodies that had fallen victim to this sudden onslaught. As we burst out into the cool night air, the distant wail of sirens reached my ears—an ominous reminder that time was slipping away, and our escape needed to be swift.

“Stay with me, Marco,” I urged, even though he was barely conscious, his body growing heavier against mine with each passing second. We had to get out of here. Now.

Blood was everywhere. Marco’s rasping breaths filled the car, each one sounding like it could be his last, as I floored the gas pedal and shot through the streets. The hospital loomed ahead, a glaring monolith of light against the night, our only hope.

“Almost there, hang on,” I said, more to myself than to Marco, who was slipping in and out of consciousness in the backseat. His blood was on my hands—literally—and the weight of it all pressed down on me, suffocating.

I screeched to a halt at the ER entrance, threw the car door open, and hauled Marco’s limp form from the back. He was heavy, his body a dead weight, but panic lent me strength. I didn’t bother with subtlety as I burst through the sliding doors.

“Help! I need help here!” My voice cut through the sterile air, commanding and desperate all at once. Nurses spun around, their faces masks of professional concern that barely hid their shock at the sight of so much blood.

“Gunshot wound!” I barked, as a stretcher materialized from nowhere. Hands reached out, relieving me of Marco’s weight, and in moments he was being wheeled away, his life in the hands of strangers.

“Sir, you’ll need to fill out some paperwork—“ a nurse began, but I silenced her with a look.

“Later. Take care of him,” I growled, the threat implicit in my tone. She nodded, understanding, and hurried after the stretcher.

He was wheeled away as the nurse told me to hang on, she said something about waiting there, that someone would come get me…or something.

I wasn’t sure what she was saying exactly.

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