Chapter 4 - THE COUNCIL IN THE LOBBY
The elevator rose in total silence to the private penthouse foyer.
Claire stood between Gabriel and Marco.
Gabriel had discarded his wet wool coat, his dark charcoal suit immaculate despite the gunfight in Brooklyn.
His hand rested lightly at the small of Claire’s back.
The heat of his palm seeped through her faded sweater, steadying her trembling knees.
The elevator chimed softly.
The brass doors slid open.
The private penthouse lobby was lined with white Italian marble, modern oil paintings, and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the wet city skyline.
Sitting on a low leather sofa was Vincent Moretti.
Seventy years old.
Silver hair slicked back with lavender pomade.
A gold-headed walking cane rested between his knees.
Four men in tailored suits stood behind the sofa, hands folded across their waists, their eyes dead and predatory.
Syndicate elders.
Men who had carved up New York’s docks and concrete unions thirty years ago.
Vincent looked up as the elevator opened.
His eyes swept over Gabriel, then settled with surgical precision on Claire’s swollen stomach.
A thin, cold smile creased Vincent’s wrinkled cheeks.
“You’re late for dinner, nephew,” Vincent said.
His voice was like dry leaves scraping over gravel.
Gabriel did not slow his stride.
He guided Claire past the elders toward the double doors of his private apartment.
“You’re in my private residence, Vincent,” Gabriel said evenly.
“You didn’t request an audience.”
Vincent tapped his gold cane against the marble floor.
Tock. Tock.
“The Commission does not request audiences when a boss breaks family law.”
Gabriel stopped.
He did not turn around, but the air in the lobby dropped five degrees.
“Which law have I broken, uncle?”
Vincent rose from the sofa, leaning on his cane with aristocratic arrogance.
“The Hayes family was blacklisted ten years ago, Gabriel.”
“Her father embezzled four million dollars from our waste management accounts in New Jersey.”
“He died in a federal cell before he paid his debt.”
Vincent pointed the gold cane directly at Claire’s chest.
“By syndicate decree, the bloodline of Thomas Hayes owes twenty million with accrued penalties.”
“Any offspring born to that name belongs to the syndicate as bonded collateral.”
Claire felt the blood drain from her face.
Her knees buckled.
Her father.
He had told her he was an accountant.
He had died of a stroke in a prison hospital when she was nineteen, leaving her with student loans and a box of old tax returns.
She had never known about the syndicate.
She had never known about Vincent Moretti.
“She is not collateral,” Gabriel said.
His voice was so low it made the crystal chandelier tremble overhead.
Vincent chuckled.
A cruel, rattling sound.
“The elders voted an hour ago, Gabriel.”
“She surrenders the child upon birth to the Moretti trust.”
“Or you step down as head of the family.”
One of the elders behind Vincent stepped forward, holding a crimson-sealed document.
“The Commission warrant, Mr. DeLuca.”
“Signed by three families.”
Gabriel turned slowly.
His dark eyes were devoid of any mercy.
He walked over to the elder holding the parchment.
He took the document from the man’s hands.
He didn't read it.
He tore it down the center.
Then tore it again.
He let the four white scraps fall onto Vincent Moretti’s polished leather shoes.
“There is no Commission above my blood,” Gabriel said.
Vincent’s smile vanished.
His jaw tightened in rage.
“You would start a five-borough war over a broke schoolteacher and a bastard child?”
Gabriel moved so fast the elders didn't even reach for their coats.
Gabriel’s left hand shot out, seizing Vincent’s throat in an iron grip.
He slammed the seventy-year-old patriarch against the marble pillar behind the sofa.
The gold cane clattered loudly across the floor.
The four guards drew their weapons, but Marco and Lev had already drawn their pistols, red laser sights painting the guards' foreheads.
“Do not call my daughter a bastard,” Gabriel whispered into Vincent’s ear.
Vincent clawed at Gabriel’s wrist, his face turning dark purple, his breath rattling in his throat.
“Gabriel...” Vincent wheezed.
“The council... will kill you...”
Gabriel leaned closer.
“Tell the council that if a single tracker steps near this building,”
“I will not negotiate.”
“I will burn the Moretti docks to the waterline.”
“And I will feed you to the Hudson.”
Gabriel released his grip.
Vincent crumpled onto the leather sofa, coughing violently, rubbing his bruised throat.
Gabriel turned his back on them.
He walked over to Claire, took her cold hand in his, and led her through the private double doors.
The heavy walnut doors closed behind them, the electronic biometric locks clicking into place.
Claire collapsed against the foyer wall, sliding down to the hardwood floor, her hands clutching her belly.
Tears spilled over her cheeks.
“My father...” she choked out.
“Is that why you found me at that charity gala, Gabriel?”
“Did you target me because of my father’s debt?”
Gabriel knelt before her on the polished floor.
He reached out and gently cupped her tear-streaked face in his hands.
“Claire,” he said, his voice cracking with an honesty he had never shown another living soul.
“I didn't know who your father was until three hours ago.”
“I went to that gala because I saw your picture in a school charity newsletter.”
“I saw a woman who looked at the world like it was worth saving.”
His thumb wiped away a warm tear from her lip.
“I loved you the night you argued with me on that terrace.”
“And I have hated every sunrise since you left my bed.”
Claire looked into his dark, tortured eyes.
Before she could speak, the penthouse lights flickered twice and died.
May you like
Total darkness swallowed the apartment.
Then, the piercing scream of an emergency breaching alarm began to wail from the terrace windows.
