Chapter 7 - The Fatal Mistake
Before Marcus could clear his holster, the heavy steel door behind him crashed open against the wall with a deafening bang.
"Step away from her, Marcus."
It was Alessandro.
He wasn't in his wheelchair.
My breath caught in my throat. Supported by heavy steel leg braces locked rigidly at the knees and gripping two titanium forearm crutches, Alessandro Moretti stood in the doorway. He looked like an avenging angel carved from granite—tall, imposing, his shoulders square, his eyes burning with an unholy, cold fury.
Marcus froze, his hand hovering inches from his gun. He looked back in sheer, unadulterated shock.
"Boss... you shouldn't be walking," Marcus stammered, panic leaking into his voice. "The physical therapist said—"
"The physical therapist works for me, Marcus," Alessandro interrupted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls with terrifying resonance. "Just like you used to."
"You can't pin this on me!" Marcus snarled, his hand finally dropping to his grip. "Marcone offered me a pension! A real one! Not sitting in a wheelchair playing emperor while the empire rots!"
"That," Alessandro said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal hum, "was your fatal mistake."
Marcus drew his weapon—but he was half a second too slow.
With a speed that defied belief, Alessandro swung his right crutch forward like a baseball bat, striking Marcus squarely across the wrist with a sickening crack. Marcus screamed, his pistol clattering across the concrete floor.
Before Marcus could recover, Alessandro drove his left crutch into the man’s knee joint, collapsing Marcus’s leg beneath him in a heap of broken momentum. Marcus hit the floor with a heavy thud, groaning in pain, clutching his shattered wrist.
Alessandro stood over him, breathing heavily, sweat beading on his forehead from the monumental physical exertion of supporting his deadened legs.
He turned his steel-gray gaze toward the monitor. The progress bar flashed green: 100% COMPLETE. DATA DOWNLOADED.
I reached down, pulled the flash drive from the port, and held it out. Alessandro nodded, taking it with one steady hand while balancing his weight expertly on the crutches.
Moments later, Julian rushed into the annex, flanked by two security guards. He took in the scene at a glance—Marcus groaning on the floor, Alessandro standing upright on his braces, and me standing pale and trembling by the terminal.
"Secure him," Julian commanded the guards, his voice ice-cold as he looked at his older brother. "Take him down to the sub-level holding cells."
As the guards hauled Marcus away, Alessandro let out a long, ragged breath. His knees buckled slightly, the sheer strain of the braces finally overwhelming his muscles.
I dropped my clipboard and lunged forward just in time, catching his arm and helping him lower himself carefully back into a heavy ergonomic chair stationed by the desk.
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"Are you okay?" I whispered, my hand resting on his shoulder. "Your legs—"
"Temporary," Alessandro panted, looking up at me, a rare, genuine warmth breaking through the harsh lines of his face. "I can stand when I have to. Especially when someone needs protecting."
