The black SUV pulled up to the gates of the Moretti compound at 4:47 a.m.
The engine idled for three seconds. There were no headlights to light up the still dark sky, no interior lights to show how many people were inside the car. There was just the low rumble of the motor and the faint crunch of gravel beneath the tires.
Two men climbed out of the back. They moved quickly, efficiently, their movements practiced and precise. One opened the rear hatch while the other grabbed the tarp-wrapped bundle inside and dragged it toward the gate.
The bundle hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
They didn't speak, didn't look at each other. Just worked in tandem like this was just another night for them. One man pulled the tarp loose, and the other stepping back to the vehicle. The fabric fell away, revealing Luca Moretti's face. Pale. Bloodied. His eyes half-open and unseeing.
The bullet hole between his eyes was clean. Precise and unmistakably the cause of death.
