Inheritance Redefined

Chapter Twenty-Two

There was a pause. Then, "I've been notified. We're already en route."

Click.

Alessandro called the Moreira head next.

A man's deep voice answered, "Calviero? The hell do you want?"

"Thiago is in a hostage situation."

A few seconds passed "Where?"

Alessandro didn't waste time. "The local mall. We're ten minutes out. Coordinate entry. No slipups. And tell your son to stay alive and keep my daughter safe."

"Damn it," the voice muttered on the other end. "Copy that. We'll see you there."

---

The air inside the boutique had turned to ice.

Not literally–but Ellara could feel the shift. Every breath was too shallow, too loud. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets, casting unnatural shadows across velvet chairs and glittering mannequins.

And then… something snapped.

One of the assailants–the younger one with sunken eyes and twitching fingers–had been glued to his phone, the screen lighting up his pale face with flickering horror.

He backed away from them. From the circle of teenagers who hadn’t screamed or begged or cowered, who sat too quietly, too confidently.

"You lied," he muttered, voice trembling. "You said it was just a robbery. A rich shop. Rich brats."

The man beside him, bearded and older, snatched the phone with a snarl. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He looked at the screen.

His pupils shrank.

He looked back at the teens. At Thiago–relaxed but watchful. At Anastasia–silent now, unreadable. At Elias and Nico.

And finally, at Elara.

Then the man stepped back too. His lips formed the words before he spoke them aloud.

"…Vasiliev. Moreira. And three fucking Calvieros."

The phone hit the ground with a crack. No one moved.

"You idiots," he rasped, turning on the youngest one. "You brought us into a fucking war zone. You think we're leaving this place alive?"

"No, no, they're bluffing. It's fake. It's Photoshop," another hissed.

"Does she look fake?" the bearded man snarled, pointing straight at Elara. "I've seen her on the news. That's the Calviero stepdaughter. With the strange eyes. The one no one knew existed until a month ago. That one," he jabbed toward Thiago, "walked out of a fucking burning embassy with blood on his suit and not a scratch on him. That one," he gestured at Anastasia, "could blow us off the grid with a voice memo."

The fear spread around like oil on fire.

One man started pacing. Another dropped his gun with shaking hands, stepping back like the boutique was booby-trapped.

"They're going to kill us. You don't touch the Five Families and live."

"You think surrendering is better?" one of them shouted, his voice cracking. "You think they won't torture us just to send a message?"

Anastasia tilted her head ever so slightly. Her lips quirked upward.

It wasn't a smile.

It was a warning.

"I'm not staying here," said one man–then he lunged for the door. "I'll take my chances!"

But the locked boutique door didn't budge. The older man grabbed him, shoved him back, furious and terrified all at once. "They'll be watching all exits. There's no out."

Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. She barely registered that she'd slid closer to Thiago, her shoulder brushing his. Her hand found his wrist, holding on–not to stop him, but to tether herself.

Because this wasn't a normal robbery anymore.

This was a mistake.

A fatal one.

And the assailants knew it.

Their fear was starting to turn on each other. Accusations flew like sparks

Elara had never felt more calm and more terrified at once.

And outside, beyond the boutique windows… she knew help was coming.

She didn't know how soon.

Or how loud it would be.

But she could already see it in the captors' eyes.

They were dead men walking.

---

The abandoned trattoria had dusty windows and a cracked sign hanging askew. No one had eaten there in years–but tonight, the upstairs dining room pulsed with quiet power.

Three men sat around a round table. No plates. No wine. Just old wood and listening equipment.

Alessandro Calviero sat at the head, back straight, sharp jaw locked tight. His earpiece glinted under a lock of iron-gray hair, and in front of him, a map of the boutique’s layout was spread. A single silver coin rolled slowly between his fingers.

Henrique Moreira leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Tattoos peeked out from under his cuffs, and he hadn't spoken in ten minutes. His expression was stone. But his eyes–those blazing, calculating eyes–missed nothing.

Sergei Vasilieva, cool and terrifying in a tailored coat, tapped ash from a cigarette into a crystal dish, eyes fixed on the listening device as police chatter crackled through.

"This is Officer D'Angelo, we've established contact. They're asking for a car. We're negotiating–over."

Sergei exhaled slowly. "Idiots."

Alessandro clicked the comm. "Contact is compromised. Use the embedded. Send them our location. Tell them we'll give them what they want."

Henrique shifted forward. "Make the car take them to Warehouse 17."

"Mine?" Alessandro asked without looking up.

"Yours has soundproof walls," Henrique replied dryly. "And a drain system."

"Done," Sergei said, already texting someone. "Marina is on shift tonight. She'll get the message through the proper channel."

Outside, sirens screamed. The entire city was watching the boutique.

But no one saw the men upstairs.

No one saw the trap being laid.