Chapter 5 - The Feast of the Surviving Wolf
The grand dining room looked entirely different by eight o'clock that evening.
Instead of the tense, paranoid conclave of capos that had gathered the night before, the long mahogany table was illuminated by dozens of tall beeswax candles. A string quartet played softly from the alcove near the French doors, filling the room with the elegant strains of Vivaldi. A silver ice bucket held a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon, and the air was rich with the aroma of roasted truffles and prime rib.
When the heavy oak doors opened, Hannah stepped inside wearing a gown that had been delivered by a high-end boutique in Manhattan just two hours earlier. It was a deep emerald-green velvet dress, cut to flatter her full curves, with a modest neckline and long sleeves that made her feel both terrified and breathtakingly elegant.
Lorenzo was already standing at the head of the table. When he saw her enter, his breath visibly caught. He walked around the table, pulled out the chair to his immediate right, and offered his arm.
“You look magnificent,” he said, his voice low and sincere.
Hannah’s cheeks burned as she took his arm, her hand trembling slightly as she settled into the chair. “I feel like I’m wearing a costume. If the other maids saw me now, they’d laugh themselves to death.”
“Let them try,” Lorenzo said, taking his seat beside her. He signaled to the waitstaff, who immediately stepped forward to pour the champagne. “In this house, nobody laughs at anything I approve of. And I approve of this entirely.”
As the first course was served—a delicate lobster bisque garnished with fresh herbs—Lorenzo turned his full attention to her, asking about her life before the estate, her mother in Buffalo, and the dreams she had put aside to pay her family’s crushing medical debts.
For the first time in her life, Hannah wasn't interrupted. She wasn't talked over. She wasn't made to feel like she was taking up too much space. Lorenzo listened to every word with an intensity that made her feel as though she were the only person in the world who mattered.
“Your father’s debts,” Lorenzo said quietly as the plates were cleared. “How much were they?”
Hannah stiffened slightly, looking down at her water glass. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Mr. Moretti. That was years ago.”
“How much?” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for evasion.
“Twenty-eight thousand dollars,” she whispered. “The interest kept compounding until we lost the house.”
Lorenzo didn't blink. He raised his wine glass, took a sip, and murmured something to Dante, who was standing quietly in the shadows near the entrance. Dante nodded once and stepped out of the room.
“By midnight,” Lorenzo said calmly, looking straight into Hannah’s eyes, “every debt your family ever owed will be paid in full, and the deed to your mother’s house will be returned to her name. Consider it a very small installment on a very large debt I owe you.”
Hannah dropped her fork, her eyes welling with tears. “Mr. Moretti... you can’t just... I didn't save you for money.”
“I know you didn't,” Lorenzo said, reaching across the table to cover her trembling hand with his warm, strong palm. “That is why I am doing it.”
Before Hannah could formulate a reply, the heavy doors behind Dante suddenly banged open.
It wasn't Dante who entered.
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It was a man in an expensive gray suit, flanked by two armed thugs holding silenced pistols. The man’s face was twisted into an ugly, desperate snarl, and in his right hand, he pointed a heavy caliber Beretta directly at Lorenzo’s chest.
“Dinner’s over, Lorenzo,” sneered Marco Costanza.
