Chapter 9 - The Serpent Strikes from Within
The Grand Syndicate Council was held at Villa Solaria, an ancient Roman estate on the highest cliff of Capri, accessible only by a single private funicular railway and a heavily guarded helipad.
The five major crime families of Southern Italy—the Rossi, Moretti, Carbone, Bellini, and D’Angelo syndicates—gathered around a massive marble roundtable in the open-air courtyard overlooking the Mediterranean.
Don Moretti, a corpulent man with cold, piggish eyes, sat at the head of the table. Beside him sat Arturo Rossi, looking smug and triumphant, surrounded by a dozen armed mercenaries.
“Don Giovanni is late,” Moretti announced, tapping his heavy gold ring against the marble. “And given the chaos at the Excelsior Hotel last night, I move that we declare Giovanni Rossi rogue, strip him of the Amalfi territories, and appoint Arturo Rossi as the supreme Don of the Rossi Syndicate.”
“I second the motion,” Arturo said, raising a stack of forged bank documents. “I have proof here that Giovanni has been laundering family funds into private offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, betraying our pact.”
The other three Dons murmured among themselves, exchanging uneasy looks.
“A vote must be cast!” Moretti declared. “All in favor—”
BOOM!
The heavy bronze gates of the courtyard were blown off their hinges in a cloud of smoke and splintered stone.
Through the clearing dust walked Giovanni Rossi, flanking by Luca, Matteo, and a squad of elite Rossi soldiers with assault rifles raised.
And walking dead center, matching Gio stride for stride, was Isadora Marino-Vance, her black diamond ring catching the blinding sunlight.
“Forgive our tardiness, gentlemen,” Gio’s voice boomed across the courtyard, freezing every man in his seat. “We had to clear out some vermin on the road.”
Arturo leaped to his feet, knocking his chair back. “Guards! Kill them! They’re traitors!”
None of the neutral family guards moved. Their weapons remained at their sides, their eyes glued to Isadora.
“Sit down, Arturo,” Isadora commanded, her voice ringing out like a silver bell of pure authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Moretti sneered, reaching beneath his jacket. “Who let this little whore into a Council of Dons?”
In a flash faster than the human eye could track, Gio drew his Beretta and fired a single shot.
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The bullet struck the marble table half an inch from Moretti’s hand, shattering a crystal carafe and showering him in glass and water.
“Speak to my fiancée like that again, Moretti,” Gio whispered, his voice colder than the Arctic ice, “and the next bullet goes through your throat.”
