Chapter 3 - The Traitor’s Toast
By sunrise, the atmosphere inside the Moretti estate had transformed from a house of mourning into a pressure cooker of impending violence.
Hannah did not get to clean the third-floor hallway that morning. Instead, she found herself in a sprawling guest suite with velvet drapes, a king-sized bed, and a private marble bathroom—a room usually reserved for visiting politicians or high-ranking syndicate heads from Chicago. A nervous young guard named Leo had escorted her there, carrying her modest canvas suitcase from the staff quarters as if it were loaded with gold bullion.
“Mr. Moretti’s orders,” Leo had muttered, avoiding her eyes. “Nobody bothers you. Ring the bell if you need breakfast.”
Hannah sat on the edge of the plush velvet mattress, staring at her hands. Her gray uniform was folded neatly on a chair, smelling faintly of bleach and floor wax. She was safe, she was comfortable, and she was terrified.
Downstairs, the estate was holding its breath.
In the grand dining room, a long mahogany table was set for six. Crystal decanters of aged bourbon caught the morning light filtering through the stained-glass windows. At the head of the table sat Lorenzo Moretti. He wore a crisp white dress shirt, the top three buttons open to reveal the pristine white gauze bandage strapped across his chest. He looked pale, and his movements were fractionally slower than usual, but the aura of absolute, terrifying dominance was back in full force.
Standing around the table were Dante Voss and four of the estate’s top capos: Vincent “The Hook” Rossi, Sal Marcone, Frankie “Two-Times” DeLuca, and Paulie Ramos.
None of them were sitting.
“I don’t understand,” Sal Marcone stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “Caldwell signed the papers. We all saw the monitor. You were gone, Boss.”
Lorenzo poured himself a finger of bourbon, swirling the amber liquid slowly. His eyes drifted over each man, pausing for a fraction of a second too long on Paulie Ramos.
“Dr. Caldwell is a brilliant surgeon,” Lorenzo said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that commanded total silence. “He understands trauma, blood loss, and pharmacology. But he does not understand loyalty. He looked at a body that had stopped fighting because it had no reason to stay, and he gave up.”
Dante crossed his arms, his face dark. “Boss, we locked down the perimeter. We checked the security logs. The poison used on those bullets was a custom military-grade paralytic. It wasn’t bought on the street. It came from an armory.”
“Indeed it did,” Lorenzo said softly. He took a slow sip of bourbon, setting the crystal glass down with a sharp clack against the wood. “A very specific armory. Maintained by men who thought my empire was ripe for the taking.”
Paulie Ramos shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward the double doors. “Boss, if you think—that’s insane. We’ve been loyal to you for fifteen years.”
“Have you, Paulie?” Lorenzo asked, raising an eyebrow. He picked up a silver dessert fork and tapped it lazily against his plate. “Fifteen years ago, you were picking pockets in Little Italy. I gave you a badge, a car, and a territory that made you rich enough to buy half of Westchester. And yet, last night at 11:15 p.m., someone disabled the exterior motion sensors on the north gate exactly three minutes before the ambush team arrived.”
The room went dead silent. You could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the corner.
Sal Marcone and Frankie DeLuca exchanged sharp, sideways glances. Vincent Rossi’s hand dropped casually toward his shoulder holster.
“It wasn’t me,” Paulie said, his voice pitching an octave higher. “Dante, tell him! I was at the poker game in Brooklyn!”
“You left the poker game at 10:45,” Lorenzo stated smoothly, leaning forward. “You told the dealer you had a stomachache. But instead of going home, your car’s TollPass was registered crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge heading north at 11:02. Right into our sector.”
Paulie’s face turned the color of ash. He lunged for his coat pocket, his hand clawing for the snub-nosed revolver tucked inside.
He didn't even clear leather.
Dante moved with the speed of a striking cobra. A heavy black-steel pistol appeared in Dante’s hand, and a deafening roar echoed off the high vaulted ceilings. Paulie spun backward, a bloody hole blooming in his chest, and crashed hard against the mahogany sideboard, scattering crystal decanters onto the floor before sliding down in a crumpled heap.
The smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. Nobody blinked.
May you like
Lorenzo didn't even flinch. He picked up his bourbon glass again, taking another unhurried sip.
“Clean that up,” Lorenzo told Dante, gesturing toward the body with his glass. Then he turned his dark, intense gaze back to Vincent Rossi and Sal Marcone. “Now that we have settled family business... I have a debt to pay.”
