Chapter 2 - THE SECOND RING

The Moretti estate ballroom was unrecognizable from the engagement dinner the night before.

The white roses and champagne glasses were gone. The long mahogany table was stripped bare.

Sitting in the high-backed chairs were the twelve Dons of the national commission. Old men in sharp suits with cold, calculating eyes.

At the head of the table sat Vincenzo Moretti. He was seventy years old, with silver hair and a walking cane resting against his chair. He looked like a grieving uncle, but his eyes were pure predatory ambition.

The heavy double doors swung open.

Luca walked in. I walked exactly one step behind him, carrying my father’s leather bag.

“Luca,” Vincenzo said, standing up and opening his arms. “Thank God you are safe. Bring the boy. Let us welcome the heir home.”

“Julian is safe where he is,” Luca said, not returning the embrace. He stood at the opposite end of the table.

Vincenzo sighed, looking at the other Dons. “A tragedy. The boy is found, but his mind is poisoned by the people who stole him. Luca, the commission has voted. Given the instability of your household, and the betrayal of your fiancée, we believe it is best if I assume temporary control of the Chicago territory. For the good of the family.”

A few of the Dons nodded in agreement. It was a masterclass in political maneuvering.

“You’re not taking Chicago, Vincenzo,” Luca said calmly.

“It is not a request, nephew,” Vincenzo’s tone sharpened. “Your father is dead. Your security chief was a traitor. You have lost the respect of the city.”

“I haven’t lost anything,” Luca replied.

He nodded to me.

I stepped forward. I didn’t look at the terrifying mafia bosses. I looked at the table.

I opened the leather bag.

I pulled out the fake gold ring and placed it on the polished wood.

Then, I pulled out the original contract from Vanessa’s silver bracelet.

And finally, I placed my father’s silver pocket watch in the center of the table.

“What is this garbage?” one of the Dons sneered. “Who is this girl?”

“She is Emma Reed,” Luca announced, his voice booming through the silent room. “The daughter of Thomas Reed. The man who was ordered to bury my father.”

Vincenzo’s eyes flicked to the pocket watch. A microscopic twitch betrayed his calm facade.

“Twelve years ago,” Luca continued, pacing the length of the table, “my father was murdered. Daniel pulled the trigger. But he didn’t give the order.”

Luca pointed to the contract. “Vanessa Bellini held my son hostage to force a marriage, giving her control of his four-hundred-million-dollar trust. But Vanessa didn’t have the power to enforce that contract on her own.”

Luca stopped directly behind Vincenzo’s chair.

“You did, Uncle.”

The room erupted in murmurs.

“This is an outrage!” Vincenzo shouted, slamming his cane on the floor. “You bring a maid in here to slander your own blood?”

“She’s not slandering you,” Luca said softly. “She brought the proof.”

I picked up the silver pocket watch. I opened the back casing, revealing the intricate gears inside.

“My father was a master metalworker,” I said, my voice steady, ringing clear across the silent ballroom. “He didn’t just make jewelry. He repaired old syndicate recording devices.”

I pulled a tiny, perfectly preserved micro-cassette tape from the hidden compartment behind the gears.

Vincenzo went completely pale.

“Daniel gave my father this tape twelve years ago to destroy,” I explained. “It was the recording of the hit being ordered. But my father didn’t destroy it. He hid it in the watch, and buried the watch in Michael Moretti’s grave.”

I handed the tape to Luca.

Luca placed it into a small cassette player on the table. He pressed play.

The scratchy, undeniable voice of Vincenzo Moretti filled the room.

“Kill Michael tonight. Make it look like a heart attack. Pay the metalworker to bury him in a lead-lined vault so no one ever does an autopsy. Take the boy. When he’s old enough, I’ll marry him off to the Bellini girl and take the Chicago trust legally.”

The tape clicked off.

The silence that followed was heavier than stone.

The eleven other Dons stared at Vincenzo with absolute, terrifying disgust. To kill a brother was a sin. To steal an heir was a death sentence.

Vincenzo scrambled to his feet, pulling a small derringer from his coat pocket.

Before he could even aim it, the Don sitting to his right drew a heavy revolver and shot Vincenzo squarely in the chest.

Vincenzo collapsed backward into his chair, dead before he hit the floor.

The Don who fired the shot calmly placed his gun back on the table. He stood up and bowed his head deeply to Luca.

“The Chicago territory is yours, Don Moretti,” the man said respectfully. “And the boy’s trust is secure.”