Chapter 10
The private jet slid across the tarmac of Munich Airport just as the first light of morning cracked the horizon. The sky above Bavaria was brushed with pale pinks and silvers, the kind of dawn that looked almost too delicate for men like Salvatore Moretti. He stepped down the polished airstairs with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once doubted that the world belonged to him. His presence carried a gravity that turned glances into stares, curiosity into respect.
Behind him, as steady as a shadow, came Marcello Esposito. The consigliere's eyes moved constantly—scanning crowds, counting security personnel, measuring exits. He was the kind of man who could memorize the layout of a building before stepping through its doors, who thought three moves ahead even when the board was hidden.
Germany had always been useful to Salvatore. It was a land of structure and wealth, a country that respected order and appearances. To the world, his visit was wrapped in legitimacy: he was a special guest, honored with the International Visionary Leadership Award, presented at the Global Business Investment Summit in Munich. The newspapers called him a titan of industry, a genius of investments. But beneath the surface, those who paid attention knew better. They saw not just a businessman, but a man whose empire bled far past the neat lines of ledgers.
The Bayerischer Hof Hotel loomed like a palace of light, its chandeliers spilling brilliance into the marble atrium. Delegates from every corner of Europe gathered there: ministers in tailored suits, bankers with cautious smiles, industrial magnates whose fortunes had outlasted wars. Conversation hummed like an orchestra tuning itself, languages weaving into a chorus of power.
Salvatore entered the hall and the tone shifted. He moved through the crowd as if he were a tide, impossible to resist, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, speaking in a voice that carried the weight of both charm and calculation. He spoke of logistics, renewable ventures, financial corridors that linked Milan to Berlin, Berlin to New York. Every phrase sounded polished, designed to soothe ministers and captains of industry alike.
Marcello, trailing close, watched with a strategist's patience. He catalogued who leaned in too eagerly, who hesitated, who concealed suspicion beneath smiles. Every name and every gesture would be remembered, tucked away for later.
When evening came, the summit turned to its ceremony. Salvatore's name was announced with thunderous applause. He walked up the steps to the stage, every step measured, every movement a study in command. Cameras flashed, the light glinting against the polished award handed to him: a crystal globe mounted on gold, symbolizing excellence in international investments.
Salvatore stood at the podium, the room hushed before him. He adjusted the microphone and let his gaze sweep across the assembled crowd.
"I accept this honor," he began, voice smooth and resonant. "But let us be clear—vision without discipline is fantasy, and discipline without vision is hollow. What we build today is not for the applause of this hour, but for the strength of tomorrow. Progress belongs to those willing to sacrifice and to endure. And I, for one, do not fear the cost of the future."
The hall erupted in applause, flashes of cameras strobing across his face. For those present, it was the speech of a visionary. For Salvatore, it was nothing but theater—another mask he wore, another script rehearsed. In his mind, the applause already meant nothing. He was thinking of Spain, of the vacant throne in its underworld, of how best to place a man there who would answer only to him.
When the applause dwindled and the ceremony faded into champagne chatter, Salvatore slipped out of the spotlight. A black Mercedes waited at a discreet side entrance, its engine purring like a caged animal. He entered without a word, Marcello sliding in after him. The car merged into Munich's streets, neon and halogen reflecting off its tinted glass.
The Don leaned back, exhaling slowly. His award rested in its velvet case on the seat beside him, already forgotten. Marcello glanced at it once and smirked faintly.
"Another trophy for the shelf you never look at," he murmured.
Salvatore's lips curved slightly. "Let the world believe what it wants. They see a businessman—they'll never suspect the shadows."
The Mercedes carried them north, toward the edge of the Englischer Garten. Their true destination was a place less gilded: an unmarked hall tucked behind the façade of a shipping company. To the world it was unremarkable. To the men who walked in its hidden corridors, it was something else entirely. Tonight, it was the meeting place of the Council of Shadows.
Inside, the air was heavy with cigar smoke and the smell of leather chairs worn by years of secret negotiations. Around a long oak table sat delegates from France, Germany, Eastern Europe—men who controlled trade routes and syndicates, men whose names were never printed but whose power could topple ministries. The chair reserved for Spain sat empty. The death of its Don had been reported as a tragic accident. Everyone in the room knew better.
Salvatore took his seat at the head of the table, his presence quieting the muttered conversations. He lit a cigarette, the ember flaring briefly.
"Spain cannot remain leaderless," he said, voice carrying the weight of certainty. "When a head falls, vultures circle. Trade will splinter. Protection will collapse. Chaos helps no one."
The man from Marseille leaned back, his accent curling around suspicion. "And your solution?"
Salvatore's smile was thin. "A candidate. Competent, loyal, and aware that his life depends on my goodwill. With him in place, order will return. Business will continue. And no one will have reason to fear instability."
Low murmurs circled the table. Some voices carried resistance, but none with conviction. Everyone in the room understood what it meant to oppose Salvatore Moretti. Slowly, like iron filings drawn to a magnet, heads began to nod. Consensus formed.
The Council of Shadows ended with agreements inked in whispers. When Salvatore and Marcello stepped back into the cold Munich night, decisions had been made that would reshape the underworld of an entire country.
And yet, fate had a way of inserting itself at the wrong moment.
Munich's night was sharp with cold, the kind that slipped under coats and into lungs. Salvatore walked with Marcello a block away from the council hall, the city's neon bleeding against the wet pavement. Their steps echoed faintly, and the streetlamp overhead hummed with a low electric buzz.
Salvatore's thoughts were elsewhere—already turning to Spain, to names and calculations—when fate decided to interrupt.
At the corner of an intersecting street, a figure collided with him in a burst of motion. A shoulder struck hard against his, papers flew from a leather folder, scattering across the sidewalk like startled birds.
A gasp followed. Feminine, sharp, startled.
"Watch where you're—" Salvatore started harshly.
The woman bent down, scrambling for the scattered papers. Recognition flashed across her face as though a curtain had been torn away. Salvatore remembered her—the doctor from London, the one who had patched him up without knowing whose blood stained her hands.
Marcello reacted first. He bent to help her, voice steady but deliberate. "Doctor Romano."
Her head snapped toward him. "You—"
Salvatore's gaze sharpened. That one syllable, heavy with recognition, told him she remembered too.
"What brings you to Germany?" Marcello asked smoothly.
"A conference," she replied, her British accent crisp even through her shock. "Healthcare summit. I—"
The sentence never finished.
A crack split the night air. A bullet shrieked past Marcello's ear and buried itself in the door of a van with a metallic scream.
"Down!" Marcello barked. He shoved Isabella behind a parked car, shielding her with his body as more shots rang out.
Glass shattered across the street. Isabella screamed, trembling violently.
Salvatore's expression hardened into steel. He drew his weapon, scanning the dark. "Go. Get her to the car," he ordered.
Marcello obeyed instantly. He dragged Isabella to the waiting Mercedes, shoved her inside, and barked at the driver. "Hotel. Now."
The car tore through the streets, Isabella shaking in the back seat, her breaths shallow.
"What just happened?" she gasped. "Who were they? Why shoot at us?"
Marcello's jaw clenched. He couldn't tell her—not yet. "You're under my protection. That's what matters. Stay calm."
Her eyes searched his, desperate for reassurance.
"Don't worry," Marcello added after a pause. "He'll handle it. That's what he does."
---
Salvatore, meanwhile, had vanished into the night, pursuing the attackers. A van peeled away from the alley, its tires spitting water as it sped off. His eyes caught the crooked license plate: M-GT 2482.
He pulled out his phone. "Track a plate," he ordered when Raffaele answered. "Munich plate. M-GT 2482."
Minutes later, the reply came. "North side, boss. Old industrial strip near the Isar rail yard. Empty warehouses. That's where they're heading."
Salvatore slid into another car. His men followed as the convoy pulled into the abandoned district. Corrugated warehouses loomed, windows black and walls scarred by graffiti. One building glowed faintly with light, a truck idling outside.
They moved in. Salvatore entered like a storm—quiet on the surface, deadly beneath. Inside, the air smelled of oil and dust. Four armed men hovered near crates wired with explosives.
The first spotted him. His hand darted for a gun.
Salvatore's shot came first. The man collapsed, blood smearing the concrete.
The others scrambled but were swiftly overpowered. His men dragged them down, binding their hands and forcing them to their knees.
Salvatore crouched before them, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. His voice was calm, deadly. "One question. Who sent you?"
The first spat at his feet. "Fuck you, Italian scum."
Salvatore's gun barked. The man slumped sideways.
The second sneered, muttering obscenities. Salvatore shot him clean through the head.
By the time he reached the third, silence pressed heavy on the room. The man trembled, sweat dripping down his temples. "Bitte—please—I'll talk. Vincenzo Greco. He paid us. Said you had to be stopped."
The last mercenary whimpered in German, begging, but Salvatore ignored him. He had the name he wanted.
Without a word, he rose, detonator in hand. His men cleared out swiftly.
The explosion ripped through the building, flames leaping skyward in a violent bloom of orange. Concrete and steel tore apart with a roar that shook the streets.
Salvatore watched the inferno for a moment, his coat flaring in the blast's wind. His voice was low, almost to himself.
"You've declared war, Vincenzo."
He turned and walked back toward his car, leaving the fire to consume the evidence.
At the hotel, Isabella startled at the distant boom that rattled the windows. She turned wide-eyed to Marcello, who stood at the glass, his expression unreadable.
"What was that?" she whispered.
Marcello's gaze stayed fixed on the faint glow rising against the night sky.
"Like I told you, Doc," he said softly, grimly. "Salvatore handles things."
The Mercedes rolled up to the Bayerischer Hof under cover of midnight. The engine hummed low before cutting, leaving only the murmur of distant traffic and the faint hum of neon signs across the square. Salvatore stepped out, the hem of his coat brushing against polished shoes still flecked with dust and ash.
Salvatore moved through the hotel lobby like a shadow cut from iron, eyes forward, expression unreadable. A nod from a bodyguard signaled that Marcello had already returned. The Don went straight to his suite.
Marcello was waiting inside, jacket off, tie loosened, his posture taut with the weight of the night.
Marcello left his room and went to Salvatore room
"Report," he said.
Salvatore said
Marcello straightened. "She's safe. No one followed us. I checked the hotel room myself."
Salvatore's eyes narrowed. "And yet she is still here."
Marcello hesitated, then answered carefully. "She is shaking up pretty badly, and i didn't want her to leave like that. i made a judgemental call to let her stay with me
For a long moment, silence pressed between them. Salvatore's jaw flexed once, twice. He stepped closer, his voice cutting through the stillness.
"Your judgment is the only reason a stranger sits in your hotel room
Who is responsible for the attack
Marcello asked
Salvatore turned away, unbuttoning his cufflinks with slow, deliberate movements. "We have another engagement," he said flatly.
Marcello frowned. "Don, you've already been through enough tonight. No one would fault you for skipping Reinhardt's ball."
Salvatore's laugh was humorless. "Fault? Reinhardt would see insult. This is his country, his city. He already owes me more than he can repay. If I don't show, he'll think the debt no longer matters."
Marcello hesitated. "And if Greco's men are still watching?"
"Then they'll learn," Salvatore replied, his voice as cold as the Bavarian night outside.
He glanced once more at Isabella, as if sealing the conversation. "At dawn, she's gone. Until then, keep her out of my way."
With that, he disappeared into the adjoining room to change, leaving the tension to thicken like smoke in his absence.