Chapter 2 - The Silent Syndicate
The Scotch tasted like ash. Aleandro swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching Isabella out of the corner of his eye. She had settled onto the leather sofa, gracefully crossing her legs, a folder of fabric swatches resting on her lap. To anyone else, she was a bride-to-be obsessed with silk tulle and ivory lace. To Aleandro, she was a ticking time bomb.
"The florist wants to use white orchids for the altar," Isabella said, looking up with wide, expectant eyes. "But I told them you prefer the classic look of white roses. I want everything to feel like home for you, Aleandro."
"Home," Aleandro repeated the word, letting it linger in the air like smoke. "My father used to say that home isn't a place, Isabella. It's the people who know your darkest secrets and still choose to stay in the room."
Isabella’s smile didn't waver, but there was a microscopic twitch in the corner of her left eyelid. A tell. He had spent years studying human deception, and that tiny tremor was all the confirmation he needed.
"Your father was a wise man," she said softly.
"He was also a betrayed man," Aleandro countered, walking slowly toward his desk. He leaned against the heavy mahogany wood, positioning himself directly beneath the hidden microphone. If whoever was on the other end of that device was listening, he wanted them to hear every syllable. "He was killed because he trusted a woman who had a camera in her purse and a wire under her corset. Did I ever tell you that story?"
Isabella’s hand paused over the fabric swatches. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, the temperature seemingly dropping by ten degrees. "No. You never mentioned that."
"It was thirty years ago," Aleandro said, swirling his glass again. "A beautiful woman from the Lucchese family. She managed to plant a tap in his private study. For six months, the FBI knew every shipment, every bribe, every union vote before it happened. My father couldn't figure out the leak. He grew paranoid. He executed three of his own cousins thinking they were the moles."
Isabella slowly closed the folder. "How horrible. What happened to her?"
"He found the wire," Aleandro said, his voice dropping an octave. The ambient noise of the Manhattan rain seemed to fade into a dull roar. "And when he found it, he didn't confront her immediately. He played a game with her. He fed her false information. He told her about a massive shipment of heroin arriving at Pier 42. The FBI raided the pier. Do you know what they found inside the containers, Isabella?"
Isabella swallowed, her chest rising and falling just a fraction faster than before. "What?"
"Nothing but three hundred barrels of industrial lye and the bodies of the three federal agents who had been handling her handler," Aleandro whispered. He stood up straight, walking over to the sofa. He leaned down, placing his hands on the armrests, trapping her between his arms. "And the woman? Well, let’s just say she discovered that industrial lye dissolves everything. Even beauty."
Isabella looked up at him, her gaze locked onto his. For a long, terrifying moment, the mask slipped. The innocent, aristocratic girl vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating operator. She looked at his hands, then at his face, gauging if he knew.
Before she could speak, the office door opened. Marco, Aleandro’s underboss, stepped in, his expression grim.
"Boss," Marco said, ignoring Isabella’s presence. "We have a problem at the Brooklyn warehouse. The Feds just intercepted a truck. It wasn't the regular cargo. It was the specialty crates from Palermo."
Aleandro didn't break eye contact with Isabella. The specialty crates contained the biometric data and offshore account numbers for the entire Eastern Seaboard Syndicate. It was information that could destroy not just the Moretti family, but five other families aligned with them.
"How did they know which truck, Marco?" Aleandro asked, his voice deadpan.
"We don't know, Boss. The route was only known by three people." Marco looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting briefly toward Isabella.
Isabella immediately reached out, placing a comforting hand on Aleandro’s arm. "Oh my god, Aleandro. Is everything okay? Is it dangerous?"
Aleandro looked down at her hand on his sleeve. It was the exact same spot where Emma had tugged him minutes earlier. One hand had brought him the truth. The other was trying to bury him.
"It’s fine, amore," Aleandro said, forcing a warm, reassuring smile onto his face as he patted her hand. "Just a minor business complication. You stay here and look at the swatches. Marco and I need to handle this downstairs."
As Aleandro walked out of the office with Marco, he glanced back one last time. Isabella had already reached into her Chanel handbag, her fingers wrapping around her phone.
Once the heavy oak doors shut behind them, Aleandro grabbed Marco by the lapels of his coat, slamming him against the corridor wall with terrifying force.
"Boss?!" Marco gasped, his hands flying up in surprise.
"Listen to me very carefully," Aleandro hissed, his face inches from his underboss. "The Brooklyn truck wasn't a leak from your men. There is a wire behind the Sicily painting in my office. Isabella put it there."
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Marco’s eyes went wide. "Miss Isabella? But... she’s the judge’s daughter. She’s been with us for—"
"I don't care if she’s the Queen of England," Aleandro snapped, releasing him. "She is a rat. And right now, she’s transmitting everything we say. Here is what we are going to do..."
