Chapter 7 - The Council GathersBy eleven o’clock that night, the grand dining room of the Moretti villa had been transformed into a war room.
The polished mahogany table, where Victor had tried to poison me less than twenty-four hours ago, was now surrounded by the twelve most powerful capos and regional directors of the syndicate. Heavy cigar smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the tense, suffocating silence of men who knew something catastrophic had occurred.
At the head of the table sat my custom high-backed leather chair.
I stood at the far end of the room, staring out the tall dining room windows into the dark, rain-slicked gardens, my hands clasped behind my back.
“Don Moretti,” Rocco, the veteran capo of the northern territory, spoke up first, his voice gravelly and impatient. “You called an emergency council meeting at midnight without explanation. Men have flown in from New York, Chicago, and Palermo on two hours' notice. This better be good.”
“It’s good enough to keep all of us from waking up dead in our beds tomorrow morning,” I said, turning slowly to face the table.
Gabriel stepped out from the shadows beside the heavy oak doors, dragging a bruised, handcuffed Victor Salvatore by the collar and shoving him violently onto the hardwood floor in the center of the room.
A collective gasp rippled through the capos. Whispers broke out instantly.
“Isn’t that... Victor?”
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Silence!” I barked, raising my hand just an inch. The room went dead instantly.
I walked slowly toward the center of the room, stopping right above Victor, who glared up at me with defiant, bloodshot eyes.
“Twenty-five years this man managed my estate, my schedule, and my health,” I said, my voice echoing off the marble pillars. “He was trusted like a brother. And last night, he tried to poison my evening medication with a fast-acting neurotoxin designed to mimic a fatal heart attack.”
Rocco slammed his fist onto the table, his face turning crimson with rage. “A traitor in our inner circle? We’ll flay him alive right here!”
“Wait, Rocco,” I held up a hand. “Victor didn't act alone. He was merely the blade. The person paying his bills, rewriting our network security, and orchestrating a complete hostile takeover of the Moretti syndicate sits much closer to home.”
The heavy oak double doors at the end of the hall creaked open.
All eyes turned toward the entrance as footsteps echoed across the marble foyer.
A tall, impeccably dressed young man stepped into the warm chandelier light, wearing a tailored Italian suit, his dark hair slicked back, a confident, arrogant smirk plastered across his handsome face.
May you like
Marco Moretti.
“Uncle Alessandro,” Marco said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs as he walked toward the table. “I received your urgent message in Geneva and caught the first private jet across the Atlantic. What’s all this dramatic nonsense about traitors?”
