Chapter 5 - Blood in the Foyer
The grand foyer of the Moretti estate looked less like a wedding reception venue and more like a war room waiting for the first bullet to fly.
When Gabriel descended the grand staircase alone—having left Eleanor locked safely in the master suite with strict orders not to leave—the atmosphere in the house shifted instantly. The low hum of conversation among the capos and associates gathered in the east parlor stopped dead. Every man turned to look at the boss.
Julian Cross stood near the heavy front doors, flanked by four armed guards holding concealed submachine guns beneath their tailored jackets. Outside, through the rain-streaked glass of the sidelights, the headlights of two unmarked black sedans cut stark, blinding beams across the wet courtyard gravel.
"They brought three men," Julian said quietly as Gabriel reached the bottom of the marble stairs. His face was carefully guarded, though a bead of sweat glistened near his temple. "They claim the debt transfer was registered through old syndicate protocols before you signed the marriage contract. They say the girl belongs to Detroit."
Gabriel walked past Julian without slowing down, his footsteps echoing sharply against the marble floor.
"Open the doors, Julian," Gabriel commanded.
"Gabriel, think about this," Julian urged, stepping half an inch into his path. "If we spark a turf war with Detroit over a motel manager with a gambling brother, the commission will—"
"I said, open the doors."
Julian swallowed hard, gave a sharp nod to the guards, and unlocked the heavy iron deadbolts.
The massive oak doors swung open, letting in a gust of cold, rainy October wind and the harsh glare of the courtyard floodlights. Standing on the marble porch were three men in wet trench coats. Leading them was Frankie "The Razor" Romano, a notorious enforcer for the Detroit syndicate—a stocky man with a broken nose, slicked-back gray hair, and a smile that looked like a scar across his face.
"Moretti," Frankie said, stepping uninvited across the threshold, tracking rainwater onto the pristine marble. "I hear congratulations are in order. A wedding is a beautiful thing. Too bad about the bride's paperwork."
Gabriel didn't move an inch. He stood in the center of the foyer, his hands resting loosely at his sides, his dark eyes fixed on Frankie with terrifying calm.
"Paperwork," Gabriel repeated softly.
"That's right," Frankie grinned, stepping further into the foyer as his two heavy enforcers flanked him. "Nathan Shaw signed over his sister’s contract to our guys in Cicero three weeks before your accountant drew up your marriage license. First-come, first-served, Gabriel. That’s how business works in the Midwest."
The dozen Moretti capos watching from the parlor parlor tightened their grips on their hidden sidearms. The air in the foyer grew so thick with tension that a match struck anywhere near the floor would have detonated the room.
Gabriel tilted his head slightly, studying Frankie as if examining a disgusting insect on a kitchen table.
"You think you have a contract on my wife, Frankie?" Gabriel asked, his voice dangerously smooth.
"I don't think. I know," Frankie laughed, stepping forward. "Hand her over, and we walk away. Keep her, and we take the whole block."
Before Frankie could finish his sentence, Gabriel moved with terrifying, blinding speed.
In a single fluid motion, Gabriel closed the distance between them, grabbed Frankie by the lapels of his wet trench coat, and slammed him backward against the solid oak front door with a crash that rattled the stained glass overhead.
Frankie’s men instinctively reached for their waistbands, but before their hands cleared their coats, Julian and the Moretti guards had four submachine guns leveled directly at their chests.
"You stepped foot in my house, Frankie," Gabriel whispered, his face inches from the enforcer’s terrified eyes, "and you brought your damp shoes onto my floor."
"Gabriel—wait—" Frankie choked out, his hands clawing uselessly at Gabriel’s wrists.
"There is no contract," Gabriel said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal growl that echoed off the high ceiling. "There is only what I allow to exist in this city. Tell your bosses in Detroit that if any one of their men comes within ten blocks of my estate again, I won't just send bodies back across the state line. I’ll burn their entire operation down to the bedrock."
Gabriel released his grip abruptly, letting Frankie slump against the doorframe, coughing and gasping for air.
"Get out of my house," Gabriel said.
Frankie scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet, and bolted out into the rain with his men scrambling right behind him. The heavy oak doors slammed shut with a thunderous crash.
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Julian let out a long, slow breath, looking at Gabriel with a mixture of awe and deep, underlying anxiety. "Boss... that just declared war on the entire Detroit council."
"Good," Gabriel said, turning around and walking toward the stairs. "Tell the men to double the perimeter watches. And send Dr. Vance up to the master suite right now."
