Third Person POV:
"Time and time again you disappoint me, Alexander."
Alexander had been here before.
A table full of advisors, his title hanging in the balance, his three younger brothers forced to meddle in affairs beyond their years, their safety in their own house questioned instead of promised.
He had been here before.
He watched as Lodovico slowly took a sip of his scotch. The bottle was The Balvenie, scotch that was aged fifty years. Alessandro Di Genova's favourite drink. Lodovico was very blatantly making a power play, from the old Don to the new, he seemed to insinuate. Except that title belonged to Alexander and Alexander alone.
The advisor seemed calm, too calm but Alexander saw straight through his bullshit. Lodovico Greco was a cruel, heartless bastard who took great satisfaction in manipulating the very people he was bound by duty to help. Figuring out Lodovico's malice was easy when forced to be under the old man's watch. Alexander had observed the advisor for two years, and he knew that whatever supposed calm aura the old man was sporting now was bound to unravel quickly.
He just hoped that his family would survive the fallout.
"I don't fucking know what you want from me." The twenty-year-old drawled, trying to slowly and inconspicuously grab the gun he had taped under the conference table earlier today. Through his peripheral vision he could see Gavino, Maximus and Rocco slowly trying to do the same. They had an opportunity, a plan. The advisory council only met once a year. Last year Alexander wasn't ready, today he was. Now it was time to execute.
"You don't know what I want from you?" Lodovico slammed his hand onto the table, the resounding bang that came from his actions sent a wave of anxiety down Alexander's lungs but the young Don ignored the feeling. It didn't matter what he said now, the advisors would die today by his hands in his estate. Then he and his siblings would be free. Free from danger, free from the possibility of a coup, and free to run the Italian empire how they saw fit.
"I want a Don capable of running an empire!" Lodovico seethed. "I want experience to sit on the Italian throne, not innocence! I want--"
"I don't give a FUCK about what you want, Greco!" Alexander roared, his loud voice booming through the room. His heart pounded in his chest as every advisor sitting before him looked taken aback by his outburst.
Fury and violence shone bright in Lodovico's eyes but Alexander didn't falter. He was no longer afraid of the almighty Italian council before him. Two years ago, he wasn't in a good enough position to take over as Don. He needed every man in this room to vouch for him, to vouch for his eighteen-year-old self that was still reeling over the death of his parents. But he was no longer eighteen, he was no longer alone, and he no longer needed the support of this council. The council that held his brothers at gunpoint just to make a point.
He hadn't forgiven nor had he forgotten.
Strength felt better than weakness.
"I have had enough of your constant admonishment and disrespect." Alexander spit. "I am the Don, the first born Di Genova. You work for ME!" He glared at Lodovico, his eyes blazing with anger. "I do not care if you stood by my mother and father's side. I do not care that you have been an advisor longer than I have been on this earth. You are nothing when seated next to me Greco, it is time you realized that."
Lodovico slowly rose in his seat, his hand twitching to reach for his gun. "What the fuck did you say to me, boy?"
Alexander ignored his pounding heart and took a look around the room. Gavino, Maximus and Rocco looked at him, while every last member of the advisory council looked at Lodovico.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
He gripped the trigger of his gun and slammed his other hand onto the table. "You heard me, cagna."
Gavino laid his left hand flat on the table. That was signal one.
Maximus then slowly followed behind Gavino and laid his right hand flat on the table.
Signal two.
Alexander waited for Rocco. The fourteen-year-old was scared, rightfully so, but Alexander saw equal parts fear and determination flowing through those young eyes and he gave his little brother a slight nod of support.
Finally, Rocco shakily lifted his left hand and laid it flat on the table.
The third and final signal. The Di Genova boys were ready to fight for their birthright.
Cold fury blazed through Alexander's veins. He planted his now murderous gaze onto Lodovico. 'Three..' he started a countdown in his head, 'two...' his hand tightened around his gun, 'one...'
The door to his main office swung open. Terror thundered down onto him as his inner countdown came to a screeching halt.
Dakoda stepped into the room, her small hands gripping a piece of paper, and her piercing eyes widening with surprise. She looked from face to face, taking in the group of twenty. Seemingly already regretting her actions, he took a small step back but it was too late. She had just unknowingly put herself on the radar of every man in the room vying for Di Genova blood.
Her scared eyes met Alexander's.
Horrified, Alexander looked at Lodovico.
Lodovico turned away from the eight-year-old and gave Alexander a cunning smile.
The Italian Don let go of his gun.
The pain fed into fury as the realization swept in that Lodovico Greco won again. His council won again. Another battle lost, another opportunity gone, another sibling endangered.
The fury cemented into full fledged rage and before he realized who exactly he was taking his helplessness out on, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "What the hell do you think you're doing!"
"Alex."
The rage molded into blind temper.
Grab Dakoda, scream at Dakoda, watch while Gavino rips her diploma.
"Alexander."
"He said get out!" She was too light. She weighed nothing, he thought she weighed more. He pushed her too hard.
"Alexander!"
He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to.
"Wake up!"
With lingering anguish pressing down on his lungs, Alexander jerked awake. He cursed as his knee slammed up into the desk he sat at. "Merda!" He hissed, standing up abruptly and frantically looking around his office. "I fell asleep. Fuck, I fell asleep!" Quickly lunging for his phone he searched for any missed calls. "Did Wright call? Ana, did he call? Did I miss it?"
Anastasia looked at her frantic husband with sorrow in her eyes. A certain heaviness, a dark cloud of depression and weariness, seemed to draw all of Alexander's features downward. It was like Anastasia could physically see the weight of the world on the Don's shoulders. Her heart stuttered in pain as she looked at him, she hadn't seen him this bad since...
"Ana?" He asked softly.
Pushing down the misery in her chest, she reached forward and put her hand on his chest, trying to somehow calm his pounding heart. "Relax, Alex." She frowned worriedly, taking the phone out of his hands. "You've only been asleep for twenty minutes. There's no update yet." Taking in his dark eyes, wrinkled eyes and messy hair she ran hand down his jaw. "It's been two days, Alex. I can watch the phone, you've been awake for over forty-eight hours. Get some sleep."
"No." Alexander muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I'm going to wait by the phone. I don't want to risk missing anything." He looked down at his pregnant wife and softly brushed his hands over her swollen belly. "What are you doing up? Is something wrong?" He questioned, taking in her silk nightgown. "You should be resting."
As if on cue, a crash sounded out somewhere far in the estate. Anastasia quickly looked down to try and hide the unhappiness in her expression but Alexander caught her chin and slowly lifted up her face to meet his eyes once again. He frowned at the familiar worry-filled gaze of his wife.
"Rocco?" He sighed, immediately recognizing the signs that told him his little brother had once again gone off the rails. The narrative was always the same, Rocco would drown his misery in alcohol, then he would lash out on whoever had the misfortune of crossing him at the moment which was usually Anastasia because no matter how many times he pushed her away she would keep trying to help him. But Rocco didn't want help, he just wanted the pain to go away and unfortunately for him and everyone around him, his supposed antidote was alcohol.
"Yeah." Anastasia whispered. "It's Rocco."
Alexander scowled. He quickly shifted so he could move past Anastasia but his Donna grabbed his hand and halted him in his steps. "Go easy on him." She told him softly. "He's coping the only way he knows how."
Alexander didn't reply.
He simply gave his wife a quick kiss on the lips and then exited out of his office in search of his youngest brother.
Alexander knew what losing Reese did to Rocco. It ruined him, it threw the youngest Di Genova boy into a torrent of addiction filled with drug and alcohol abuse, anger, and self-induced pain, but Rocco got better. This past year, Rocco was getting better. Ever since Reese came back into their lives, it seemed as though the addiction subdued. He wasn't miraculously cured but he was undoubtedly doing better, they all were, but progress tends to unravel with heartbreak and losing Reese for a second time was more than adequate grounds for a relapse.
Ignoring the grief that seemed to burrow deep into his bones, Alexander finally registered where the noise was coming from. Reese's room. Of course it was Reese's room. Rocco had been mourning his best friend for longer than he knew her.
Sighing, Alexander opened the door and stepped into the room. Immediately, he furrowed his brows in confusion at the sight in front of him.
Reese's belongings were everywhere.
Rocco had taken her old books off the bookcases, he had stripped the entire bed, Reese's kid clothes were thrown out of her closet, all her pictures were taken down and in the middle of it all was a very drunk Rocco, haphazardly packing it all up.
"Rocco!" Alexander barked. "What are you doing?!"
A flash of anger blazed through Rocco's eyes for a split second before it disappeared. His mouth then stretched into a wide smile. "Alex." He slurred. "I'm glad yo-you're here. Want to help me pack?"
Alexander's fists curled at the mess before him. He looked from wall to wall in barely concealed despair. Rocco hadn't let anyone touch Reese's room in over ten years, he barely let anyone step foot near the premises so what the hell was this?
"Pack?" Alexander fumed. "Pack what?! Put her stuff back!"
It was like a switch immediately flipped in Rocco. The unsteadiness of his steps washed away as he lunged forward with inescapable speed that shouldn't have been possible with how much he had to drink. He slammed Alexander into the wall, grabbed his collar and snarled angrily. "How many fucking times is it going to take you to get it through your head, Alexander." He spit. "I don't take orders from you, I don't follow behind you. I already made that mistake once. I won't do it ever again."
Alexander looked at Rocco in shock. The young Capo looked unhinged. His red rimmed eyes were full of malice, like he was dead serious about hurting his older brother. Gone was his control, gone was his sanity. Rocco was just...gone.
Alexander twisted out of Rocco's hold and shoved him off of him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" He scoffed, pushing away from the wall. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Stumbling forward, Rocco was quick to get back in Alexander's face. "I'm talking about you. I'm talking about this awful family." He hiccuped. "I looked up to you, I wanted to be you, I followed behind you, but look where that got me."
He started laughing loudly. Disturbing, erratic, uncontrollable laughs.
"Alex is ignoring Koda, so Koda must be the problem right? Alex is the oldest so he must know best? He's doing the right thing by distancing himself from her. Alex did the right thing by not pushing her to come home after she was gone for ten fucking years. Alex says we shouldn't pressure her. Don't worry, she'll stop hating us eventually, we just need to give her space. Give her space, so much space that she barely even acknowledges our presence even though she's back in Italy. Alex says it's the right thing to do, so it must be true."
He grabbed the half-empty tequila bottle that was laying by his feet and took a large swing from it. "I'm like a dog that follows its owner around." He laughed maniacally.
"Rocco." Alexander stepped forward cautiously. "I think you have had enough."
"Shut up!" Rocco snapped, turning around to clumsily start packing up Reese's things once again. "You want to know something, Alex?"
"I hate myself."
Alexander stepped forward once again but Rocco lifted his hand, warning his brother not to come any closer. "I really fucking hate myself, but do you know what I hate more?" He looked at Alexander with fury in his eyes. "I fucking hate this family. I hate this family more than anything in the world. I hate you, I hate Gav, I hate Max." He looked down at the picture frame in his hand and glared at the baby picture of Reese. "And I hate her too. I hate Reese."
Anger surged through Alexander's veins at the mention of his sister's name. "Are you done?" He snarled. "Are you done? Is your pity party over?"
Rocco narrowed his eyes.
"You don't hate Reese, you asshole." Alexander scoffed. "You're just drunk off your ass and looking for a target to shift all of the blame of your problems on." He stormed forward and yanked the picture frame and tequila bottle out of Rocco's unsuspecting hands. "You can hate me, Gav, and Max all you want, you can rage all you want but when you're spewing out your usual hateful bullshit, cursing the world and bitching about how much your life sucks, do me a favor and keep our sister out of it." Sighing, Alexander blinked back his exhaustion. "Go to sleep, Rocco. You can continue hating the world and everyone in it in the morning when you're sober."
With that, he turned around and began to walk out Reese's room.
But Rocco wasn't finished.
"It's so easy for you to act all high and mighty now, isn't it? The Capo sneered. "It's so easy to suddenly turn into a good guy when the person you wronged is dead."
Alexander froze.
"She's dead, Alex. Dead." Rocco poured fuel into the proverbial fire. "All of these things?" He angrily swiped his arms over Reese's desk and sent everything sprawling out onto the floor. "They don't matter! Your new 'good-boy' persona? It doesn't matter! You can stop acting like you care now, she isn't going to be here to see the difference!"
With his chest rapidly falling up and down, he let out a low laugh. "And if you're playing the part for your daughter, you can save it. That won't matter either. I hope she doesn't get the classic Alexander treatment when she's born but I'm thinking it might be inevitable. I went through it, Gav went through it, Max went through it and Koda took the brunt of it."
When Alexander didn't respond, Rocco took that as a sign to elaborate. "You know, the infamous treatment. The one where you fuck up as a brother and a father figure all in one."
Alexander flinched.
Rocco's words did exactly what they intended to do. They struck Alexander hard, sending hurt spiraling through his chest. The guilt, the grief, and the seizing pain of knowing he failed his family countless times came back and hit him full force. But this time the pain was different, it accompanied something else. Fear.
Fear of failure, fear of not being enough, fear of becoming someone that his daughter hates instead of loves, and fear of repeating his past mistakes. Yet, despite all that fear and anger and hurt, he did not fall prey to his old ways. He didn't lose control and lash out like his heart so desperately begged him to.
Hurt people hurt people and Alexander once carried enough hurt to tear apart his entire family. He didn't want to drown in it anymore, he was tired of letting it consume him.
"I know I've failed you as a brother." He spoke softly, hoping Rocco was listening behind him. "I know I've made mistakes that you Gav, Max and Reese have had to pay for but I'm trying to fix them, I'm trying to do better. To be better." He looked down at the bottle in his hand and after a few seconds of silence, he placed it on the floor. "I don't know how to make you believe that I'm sorry. I don't even know how to make Reese believe that I love her, but I'm fighting to be a better man, a better brother, and a better father-figure for you, for Max and Gav and for her."
Finally turning around, he looked at a now miserable Rocco. "I'm hurting too. I'm in pain too. I miss her too. But this?" He pointed at the bottle. "This doesn't solve anyone's problems. Numbing the pain doesn't make it go away."
"This person you're becoming behind the scenes, Rocco?" Alexander shook his head, not knowing how to adequately convey what repeatedly seeing his brother in this state did to him. So he picked words he knew would strike Rocco exactly where they needed to hurt. "She would hate him."
He watched as Rocco's grief-stricken eyes watered.
It was only when Alexander turned around again, Rocco replied. "Mama or Ree?" It was a whisper. A mere whisper.
The Don only responded after a few seconds had past. "Both."
The phone rang. Ry's voice accompanied it.
"Incoming call from unknown. It is an American number sir."
Terror had Alexander's heart seizing into a dead stop. He rushed out of the room, ignoring Rocco's desperate inquires that muffled in volume the further away he ran. Bursting through the front doors of the Di Genova estate, he finally stopped. "Don't take her from me." He begged looking up at the sky, his thumb barely hovering over the answer button. "Please, you already took mom and dad, don't take her from me too."
With a trembling swipe of his finger, he answered the call.
"Alexander."
The Don recognized Wright's voice. It had been two days since the agent shook his hand in what was an unprecedented unwritten alliance forged out of desperation. The retrieval of teams five and six for the exchange of invaluable covert trade secrets agents like Owen Wright could only dream about obtaining. There was so much on the line, fear almost unmanned Alexander. He could feel nothing but blind terror surging through his chest over and over again. Three words. He could only manage to utter three words.
"Is she alive?"
One breath, two breaths, three.
"She's alive. You need to get here now."
Wright cut the phone.
And then Alexander cried.
He cried for all the time lost, for all the mistakes he made as a kid, for all the pain he and his family endured, for all the people that were taken from him, and finally for the ones that were given back.
"Thank you." He sobbed, falling to his knees while looking up at the stars. "Thank you."
_
For the fifth time in the span of one hour, Owen Wright emptied the contents of his stomach into the designated staff toilets of the American embassy in Italy.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remove the sickness that seemed to plague and blossom within his internal walls. Working for the FBI meant understanding the physical, emotional and violent reality of what law enforcement resides on and requires. He had signed off on various documents warning him of the psychological and social ramifications of the debilitating trauma that usually came with his line of work multiple times, but this...this was different.
What he saw tonight. The degree of injuries inflicted to those men and women. The amount of blood split, the rotting limbs scattered on the floor...
He sagged against the stall wall and groaned.
What the hell did he just get himself involved in?
"Boss."
Wright wiped his mouth. He straightened and then hauled himself up from the bathroom floor. Pushing the stall door open, he groggily walked past one of his newer agents who looked highly uncomfortable in his presence. Whether it was because he had just heard his boss throw up his dinner over twenty times, or it was simply a matter of what he needed to tell him, Wright didn't know.
"What is it?" He grunted, splashing water on his face.
"Boss, Jonathon Vanderbilt and his associates are getting increasingly harder to contain." The agent informed nervously. "Since we now have Reese Vanderbilt in our custody, I was wondering if we have the all clear to release Jonathon Vanderbilt, Pria Sangha and Nico Williams?"
Wright kept both hands on the sink as he slowly turned his head to face his agent. "Where is Reese Vanderbilt right now?" He asked slowly.
The agent squirmed under his boss's intense stare. "I believe she is in surgery, sir."
"And what state did we find her in, agent?"
A pause. "She was barely breathing, sir."
Wright straightened. "So let me get this straight." Crossing his arms, he leaned against the sink. "You want to release the only three people we have in custody that are lucid and coherent just because we have Reese Vanderbilt in our custody." He asked dryly. "Reese Vanderbilt...who we found half-dead."
The agent cringed. "They're not telling us anything anyways, boss."
Wright's anger spiked. "And do you think the unconscious eighteen-year-old is going to give you more information?" He growled.
"No sir."
"Okay then. Let's start over." He shoved down his irritation. "What is it, agent?"
"Nothing important, sir."
"Fuck off then."
The agent practically ran from the bathroom.
Wright glared at his retreating form. "Goddamn moron." He grunted while turning back towards the sink and rinsing his mouth with water.
"Boss."
Wright contemplated smashing his head into the mirror before him until he no longer had to deal with his blood-sucking agents, or until he no longer had to deal with anything at all. Either was preferable.
"What?" He spit, his patience already wearing so thin it was ready to snap.
The new agent bristled at his boss's tone. "You said to give you hourly updates on the suspects we rescued?" He paused to look down at the files in his hand. "Carver Rutherford is out of surgery."
That got Wright's attention.
"Is he awake?" He asked, gesturing the agent to follow him as he exited the bathroom.
"Not completely, boss. I assume he'll be groggy from the effects of anesthesia for a while. He is also heavily medicated and reliant on painkillers because of the extent of his injuries. And to top it all off, he still has a tube down his throat to regulate his breathing."
Wright frowned. "What the fuck happened to them down there?" He mumbled.
The agent beside him winced. "No idea, sir."
"What about the others?" Wright asked distractedly.
"The list Alexander Di Genova gave us had twenty-six names of members from what he told us were 'teams five and six'...whatever that's supposed to mean." The agent was clearly irritated with the lack of information Alexander had provided them. "Out of twenty-six people, we only found twelve in those tunnels and only five out of the twelve were still breathing."
Wright nodded his head. "And the status of those five?"
"Reese Vanderbilt is in surgery, the status of her survival is still unknown. Carver Rutherford is out of surgery and resting in trauma room three. Liam Henderson died on the operating table, alongside Simran Gill whose injuries were too severe to be treated. And lastly, Mauro Agrusa is in medical room four."
"His injuries?" Wright asked.
The agent pursed his lips. "As far as I know, he's fine."
Wright stopped walking. "Fine?"
The agent shrugged. "Cuts and bruises sure, but nothing to the extent of what the other four sustained."
Wright clicked his tongue. "He's young." He sighed, shaking his head while he looked at the files. "It's a damn shame."
"What is, sir?"
"Mafias have a code of honour and loyalty amongst their members." Wright explained. "Preserving the dignity and secrecy of their empires is not a choice, it's a way of life. How is it that in a secret murder dungeon underneath the Port of Paris, the sister of the Don of the Italian mafia was practically carved up but a solider of the empire was left untouched?"
The agent's eyes widened as he put two and two together. "He's a traitor."
Wright nodded his head. "He's a traitor."
Tapping the picture of Mauro, he then shrugged. "But it just so happens that the enemy of my enemy is my friend." He passed the files back to his agent. "Put Mauro Agrusa in an interrogating room and question him on everything he knows about Alexander Di Genova, Jonathan Vanderbilt and Reese Vanderbilt. We're not moving forward with the fucking scraps of information Alexander Di Genova is currently providing us. We're in dangerous company and if we want to keep the heat off our asses we need to know exactly who and what we're dealing with."
"And if he doesn't talk, boss?"
"If he refuses to talk then remind him of what will happen if we send him back to his Don. He has two choices, he can either deal with the ones he betrayed or he can deal with us."
Nodding his head, the agent started to jog backwards, already on the move to conduct his boss's orders "Got it." He chirped, then he turned around and jogged off.
Wright exhaled a long breath. He now had another thing to worry about. If Mauro was in fact a traitor then Alexander Di Genova would demand for the young boy to be released into his custody. If he refused to do so, then it would jeopardize his already rocky relationship with the Di Genovas and Alexander could very well go back on his word and not hand over the list of names he promised. Then the rescue, the going against his superiors, the secret conspiring with terrorists, it would all be for nothing. But, if he agreed to hand Mauro over then he would be sending the nineteen-year-old to his imminent death.
He groaned. Why the hell was he dealing with goddamn teenagers? If Mauro was a forty-year-old man, Wright wouldn't have given less of a fuck what happened to him. But he wasn't, he was nineteen and now every time he would think about Mauro he would imagine his little brother in the same situation.
He groaned again.
Somehow in the midst of all his complaining and self-loathing, he had finally made it to trauma room three.
He took out his keycard and swiped it on the electronic lock outside the door. Technically, international embassies have no policing powers so the United States isn't allowed to jail or detain any fugitives on Italian soil, even on the grounds of the American embassy. But, the electronics locks on the west end of the building were kind of a loophole. Only higher ranking agents were allowed access so if they really wanted to detain someone secretly, they could.
In this case, these trauma rooms were reserved for people Wright didn't want escaping or other people recognizing. That's why Carver Rutherford was here and Jonathon Vanderbilt, Pria Sangha and Nico Williams were cuffed four doors down.
The lock pad flashed green and Wright turned the handle and pushed through the door. Right when he entered, he was instantly met with the sound of a heart monitor steadily beeping.
Carver Rutherford laid on a hospital bed across the room.
Wright jaw clenched at the memory of finding Carver in the tunnels. He was laying unconscious in a pool of his own blood, tied up so tightly it took four agents to get all the chains and ropes off of him. Wright had to identify Carver from blurry pictures of his tattoos. Carver's face was beaten so badly he was utterly unrecognizable to any and all facial recognition software Wright tried to use.
He stepped closer to Carver's side and took a minute to take in all the damage. Now, Carver looked monumentally better. All the damage was still there and make no mistake it was brutal, but the blood, dirt and grime that once coated him was now cleaned off. Wright could finally see Carver's pale skin on his face, neck and arms instead of just seeing red from all the blood. There was a tube going in through his mouth and nose while hundreds of other lines went into his hands, chest and arms. But he was alive. Just barely. But alive.
Wright frowned as he took in the very prominent stitches going through Carver's eyebrow, down his eye and onto his cheek. That slice was going to scar, and it was going to scar bad. Whoever was responsible definitely did it knowing that information. A message was being sent. What it was? Wright had no idea.
He stared down at Carver for a few more seconds before shifting his attention onto the medical files laying on the side table. Grabbing the first document, he started reading.
Cuts, bruises, lacerations, a fractured jaw, a fractured right cheekbone, a broken left arm, internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen, a collapsed left lung, a stable pelvic fracture, six broken ribs, two fractured fingers ... the list went on and on and on. "Jesus Christ." He mumbled, looking at the list in mild horror. His eyes scanned the rest of the document quickly, not understanding most of the medical jargon.
He almost set the paper down but right before he did, one last thing caught his eye. Patient information: Carver Rutherford, Citizen of The United Kingdom, male, 6'5, nineteen-years-old.
Nineteen-years-old.
Another teenager involved in this mess.
"God hates me." Wright muttered, setting the papers down. He ran a stressed hand down his face and moved to sit down on the sofa beside Carver's bed.
What was next? He had bosses to answer to but no answers to provide. Hopefully Alexander Di Genova was a man of his word and would hand over the complete list of international spies from the French empire but what was the story behind that list? Why did they attack France? Were the Vanderbilts a threat to national security? Was the information Alexander promised even legit?
Conducting an operation in France without the approval of his superiors was a move that could have him stripped of his position and immediately blacklisted in the FBI. No, forget being blacklisted. He could be cut down with federal charges and thrown into a maximum security prison for the rest of his life. There was so much on the line and he had so many questions but he wasn't getting any answers.
A fresh swell of anger rose in him like a tide.
Why was he feeling sorry for these people? It didn't matter who they were or how young they were. They were more than old enough to make their own decisions. His brother was eighteen-years-old, no one saw him joining mafias and becoming a fucking terrorist.
He wasn't going to negotiate anymore. If Jonathon Vanderbilt wanted his daughter and if Alexander Di Genova wanted his sister and the rest of his team, then they would have to cooperate. They no longer had a choice.
And Mauro? Wright was going to milk out every single thing that boy knew about his bosses. The Vanderbilts, the Di Genovas, the Rutherfords, Wright wanted them all.
No one was leaving the fucking building until he got what he needed. Enough was enough.
He rose from his seat.
Moving to leave, he looked over at Carver once more. His eyes immediately narrowed as he tilted his head. He could have sworn he saw one of Carver's fingers move. He waited silently for a few more seconds and when he saw Carver's fingers move again he walked back over to the bed.
Upon closer inspection he realized that he was right, the nineteen-year-old was waking up. Carver's eyes moved the smallest amount under his eyelids and his fingers twitched at his sides. His heart monitor then jolted as the rhythm picked up in speed.
Wright immediately took out his phone and made a call. "I need a doctor in trauma room three." He ordered before pocketing the device.
He watched silently as Carver's eyes cracked open the tiniest amount.
"Hey." He spoke up, not really knowing if Carver would even understand. He looked so groggy and weak that the agent wondered if he was even awake or if this was just a one off. Despite not knowing, Wright decided to keep on talking.
"My name is Agent Owen Wright. I'm from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, more specifically, the Counter-Terrorism division of the FBI." He flashed his badge. Pausing for a few seconds he struggled to figure out what to say to a half-comatose body. "You came out of surgery about an hour ago, I know the chest tube is probably really uncomfortable but the doctor should be here in about a minute so..."
Carver blinked slowly. His eyes were still not fully open or focused but they were mostly looking at the general direction of where Wright was and that was good enough for the agent.
"You're on Italian soil." Wright informed. "You can relax, you're out of France. You're safe now."
Carver's hand moved.
Wright looked down at it and frowned. "Is that a celebration or what?" He joked dryly.
Carver moved his hand again, his half-opened eyes now definitely trained on Wright.
"What are you—" Wright paused and then started looking around the room. He moved towards the documents he was reading before and grabbed a piece of paper from the top, then he grabbed a spare pen.
Turning back towards the bed, he moved the supplies so they could be in Carver's line of sight. "Can you write?" He questioned, putting the pen in Carver's limp fingers.
Wright's lips twitched into half a smile as Carver immediately gripped the pen. Gently putting the paper under the nineteen-year-old's hand. He waited for Carver to start writing.
Carver's hand started moving.
He wrote clumsily for about a minute before relaxing his hand. Wright took that as the signal for Carver being done.
Picking up the paper, Wright frowned at the contents. There were only three crooked letters.
R E E
"Ree." He spoke out loud. Taking his gaze off the paper he looked at Carver again. "Ree... Ree...Reese?" He questioned, not knowing what else the three letters could mean. "Are you talking about Reese Vanderbilt?"
Carver blinked twice.
"Reese Vanderbilt is here as well. She's in surgery right now."
The way Carver's eyes focused and then slightly watered...it was like Wright could physically see the instant relief. Even the heart monitor relaxed, Carver's heart beat regulating into a calm rhythm once again.
Wright opened his mouth to question Carver some more but before he could get a single word out, the door opened with a beep and a flood of doctors and nurses stormed the room.
They frantically fussed over Carver, asking him how he was feeling, dosing him with more morphine, checking all the wires, tubes, IV bags and then his pain levels. When Carver's blinks turned slow and sluggish, Wright knew the nineteen-year-old was going to pass out again any second now. It was obvious that his interrogation wasn't going to happen anytime soon, not with the amount of drugs the kid had just got dosed with.
So Wright left the doctors to it and exited the room.
His phone rang.
Recognizing the number of one of his agents he pressed accept. "What is it?" He sighed.
"Boss, Alexander Di Genova is here. Should I send him your way?"
Wright straightened. Finally. "Yeah, send him to the trauma rooms." He paused. "Search him. Make sure he's not armed."
"Yes sir."
The call disconnected and Wright leaned against the wall waiting for Alexander to emerge. After a few minutes had passed, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor towards him. He wasn't surprised when he saw three Di Genovas instead of one, he was just surprised there wasn't four.
"Owen Wright." Alexander Di Genova stopped before him and to the surprise of everyone, extended his hand. "I owe you a thank you."
Wright narrowed his eyes. Looking down at Alexander's outstretched hand, he left it hanging. "Don't thank me just yet, Di Genova. I simply fulfilled my end of the bargain, but you're not seeing your sister until I get the rest of the names."
Wright watched as Alexander's jaw clenched and fury sparked in his eyes. He stiffened but didn't flinch as Gavino Di Genova lunged forward but before any fists could fly Alexander slapped a hand against his brother's chest. Stopping Gavino in place.
With violence shining bright in his demeanour, Alexander snarled at Wright.
"This is not the time to fuck with me, Wright. I already told you that I would give you the list, but right now that isn't my priority. My kidnapped sister is. So either tell me where she is, or I'll snap your neck and find her myself."
A threat. Alexander Di Genova was threatening him on American embassy grounds.
Anger heated Wright's blood.
It boiled and boiled and boiled until he was a half second away from losing his shit.
Wright gritted his teeth. "I put my fucking job on the line and rescued her when you couldn't. I don't give a fuck about what your priority is, I give a fuck about mine." Stepping forward and squaring up to the Don, he let the frustration running through his veins feed into his fury. "You knew the terms of our deal. So give me the fucking list or I'll throw you in an American jail cell right next to your buddy Jonathon."
Wright could feel like chest heaving up and down in anger. He tried to take in deep breaths to calm himself but it was pretty hard with three mafia members standing in front of him. He waited for the inevitable explosion, the rebuttal, the swing to his jaw from any one of the Di Genovas but all the three brothers did was stare at him blankly.
It was quiet for a few seconds more and then Maximus Di Genova snorted. "Good to see that not all feds are pussies."
Wright watched in raging confusion as Alexander smirked. The Don extended his hand towards Maximus who passed him a Manila folder . "Relax, Owen." Alexander taunted. "I keep my word."
He handed the folder over to Wright.
With narrowed eyes, Wright grabbed the folder and immediately started flipping through the contents. Sure enough, there was a list of over two hundred names, addresses, associations, and locations. Everything Alexander Di Genova promised was there.
"This still has to be vetted." Wright reminded, closing the folder. "For all I know, all this information is bullshit, and you're playing me."
"Then go fucking vet it." Gavino hissed, clearly sick of waiting. "Are any of us stopping you? We gave it to you, it's literally in your hands. What more do you want us to do?"
Wright opened his mouth to spit out a retort but Alexander sighed and cut him off.
"Look, we're not here to fight." He exclaimed tiredly. "I respect you, Owen. You did your job and you're just looking out for you and your team but we're fucking tired. It's been a very long two weeks and we just want to know where our sister is. You can go vet the files and run whatever software you need, we won't leave. We would never leave without her anyways."
Wright took a moment to look at the three brothers in front of him, really look. He hadn't realized how awful they looked, how dead. Their faces were sunken in, their eyes were hollow, their suits were loose, hard lines went through their foreheads but above all else they just looked tired. Defeated even. Like they had given up on the world.
Wright realized what it was. Grief.
This is what grief looked like.
The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "She's in surgery right now, I'll let you if there are any updates."
Raw pain flashed through Alexander's eyes. "Okay, thank you." He exclaimed again softly. "And the rest of them? The rest of the twenty-six?" He paused like he was afraid to ask the next question. "Carver Rutherford? He's the tall one with the blue eyes, wavy brown hair and tattoos. Did you find him?"
The fear in Alexander's voice almost made Wright question his entire previous judgment of the Di Genovas. Almost.
"When we raided the underground tunnels we searched for every name on your list. We only found twelve of your people." Wright explained cautiously. "Out of the twelve, only five were still intact and breathing when we got there and out of those five, only three are still with us now."
The Di Genovas stiffened.
"As you know, Reese is in surgery, she's one. Mauro Agrusa is..." He paused, taking a second to think. "...he's in surgery as well. He's the second survivor and the third is Carver Rutherford."
Alexander's eyes widened.
Wright took his keycard and swiped it through the lock beside him. Opening the door, he gestured inside. "He's okay, he's right here."
Without another word, the Di Genovas rushed into the room. Wright gestured for the team of doctors and nurses to leave and they all started filing out, leaving the Di Genovas alone with an unconscious Carver.
Wright watched the interaction in the doorway.
"Hey lover boy." Gavino nudged Carver's limp arm teasingly but Wright could hear the strain in his voice. "You're lucky you're alive, because if you died and broke my sister's heart I would have really killed you."
Maximus laughed but Wright saw the discreet wipe of his eyes. He was crying.
Wright then looked over to Alexander. He frowned when he realized the Don was speaking to his ...watch?
"Video calling Stephen Rutherford."
Suddenly, light burst out from Alexander's wrist and the British man the agent had deported merely two days ago was looking worriedly at Alexander. No it wasn't the real man, it was a hologram video of the man. A live hologram video.
Wright had to stop his jaw from unhinging.
"What the fuck?" He muttered, his face twisting in surprise.
"Alexander what's going on?" The man questioned frantically. "It's four am, do you have news? Did you find them?"
Alexander eyes watered. "Is Natalie with you, Stephen?"
"Yes, I'm here." A woman stepped into the hologram's frame. Her hair was disheveled, and she was wearing a nightgown, she obviously just had woken up. Her eyes were wide with fear. "What is it, Alexander?" Tears were already running down her cheeks but despite her panicked state, she kept her voice steady.
"Got him." Alexander smiled. "He's alive." Using his hand to swipe the air, Alexander turned the hologram bodies of the man and woman to face Carver.
"Carver!" The woman sagged against her husband, immediately collapsing as she sobbed in obvious relief. The man caught his wife and held her up as he himself shuddered with sobs and repeated the same two words over and over again.
"My boy." He cried, staring down at Carver with tears spilling out of his eyes. "My boy."
Wright turned out of the doorway, obviously having seen enough. The scene he had just witnessed was obviously hard to watch but it became easier when he reminded himself of who exactly these people really were.
Murderers, dealers, terrorists, criminals.
He started walking down the hallway, leaving trauma room three and his sympathy for the Vanderbilts, Di Genovas and Rutherfords behind.
Taking out his phone he made one last call. "Uncuff Jonathon Vanderbilt, Pria Sangha, and Nico Williams and place them in trauma room three." He ordered. "But I need at least five agents monitoring that room at all times. That means you check the cameras, you listen to the mics, and you station guards outside. I want the whole nine yards. No one enters or leaves without my permission."
He ended the call.
Turning down another hallway, he stopped at a black door. Scanning his keycard, he strolled into the noticeably colder and darker room.
The boy sitting on the sole chair in the middle of the room flinched.
Wright walked until he was centimetres away from the terrified boy. The door behind them slammed shut. It was time for him to get answers, to get a leg up on the terrorists he was conspiring with, and most importantly, it was time for him to formally introduce himself to his new asset.
"Mauro Agrusa." He stated coldly. "My name is Agent Owen Wright."
"I have some questions for you."
_
Happy Sunday! Hahaha... yikes:/
Until next time,
-Eliza