Chapter 8 - The Mur Mur of the DeadThe giant screens didn't show family portraits. They didn't show wedding preparations or Tuscan landscapes.
They showed high-definition security footage from the private pantry adjacent to Lorenzo’s personal study.
The entire ballroom gasped.
There, clear as day on the glowing panels, was Serena Romano. Her face, usually locked in flawless serenity, was twisted in cold concentration as she pulled the small amber vial from her velvet clutch, unsealed it, and tipped three precise drops into Lorenzo’s nightly glass of Bordeaux.
The audio kicked in through the state-of-the-art sound system.
“Just a few more weeks,” Serena’s recorded voice whispered clearly across the silent ballroom, echoing off the Murano crystal. “And the old man won't even be able to hold a pen. The Duca name dies with a tremor.”
The silence in the room became absolute.
May you like
Senators looked away, staring fixedly at their shoes. Rival capos from Chicago exchanged quick, calculating glances, mentally recalculating the balance of power on the East Coast.
Don Salvatore Romano stood frozen in the center aisle, his weathered hands trembling slightly against his cane. The mask was gone. The grand merger was exposed for what it truly was: a hostile execution
