Chapter 9 - The Broken Oath
Screams erupted in the dark.
Chairs scraped violently against the floor.
The sound of sixty men drawing weapons clicked in the blackness like a swarm of mechanical insects.
“Nobody move!” Marcone’s voice bellowed through the dark.
“Guards! Get the lights on!” Antonio roared.
ONE.
I dropped low to the floor, my hand sliding up the slit of my emerald gown.
TWO.
My fingers closed around the grip of the pearl-handled .25 pistol.
THREE.
The sound of shattering glass exploded from the far side of the ballroom.
The massive skylight above the head table caved inward.
A shower of crystal rained down upon the mobsters.
FOUR.
A heavy thud shook the floorboards.
FIVE.
The backup generators kicked in.
The chandeliers flickered back to life, flooding the ballroom with blinding golden light.
Standing in the center of the head table was Luca Moretti.
He looked like an angel of death.
His black tuxedo was dusted with shattered glass.
In his hands, he held twin black semi-automatic pistols.
Both barrels were pointed directly at Antonio Moretti’s head.
The entire room went completely, terrifyingly silent.
Men who had spent forty years in the mafia dropped their jaws in absolute disbelief.
“Luca...” Antonio whispered, his face turning the color of ash.
Luca looked down at his father from the top of the table.
“You said I was dead, father.”
Luca’s voice was smooth, deadly, and resonated off the high ceilings.
“You should have checked the pulse.”
Vanessa backed away from the table, hyperventilating.
She bumped into a waiter’s cart, sending champagne flutes crashing to the floor.
“Kill him!” Antonio screamed, pointing his cane at Luca.
“Shoot him down!”
Not a single guard moved.
Daniel Russo had already drawn his weapon and was standing directly behind Salvatore Marcone.
Daniel pressed the muzzle of his Glock against the base of Marcone’s skull.
“Order your men to stand down, Don Marcone,” Daniel ordered calmly.
Marcone didn't flinch, but his eyes darted toward the massive curved display screens mounted on the ballroom walls.
Suddenly, every screen in the room lit up.
The database from the titanium flash drive began scrolling across the monitors.
Bank accounts.
Wire transfers.
And in massive, bold letters across the center screen:
BENEFICIARY: VANESSA BELLINI & ANTONIO MORETTI.
TOTAL AMOUNT TRANSFERRED: $2,418,900,210.
SOURCE: GENOVESE-MORETTI JOINT REVENUE TRUST.
Marcone read the screen.
His weathered face turned a terrifying shade of crimson.
He slowly turned his head to look at Antonio.
“You stole two billion dollars from New York, Antonio?” Marcone whispered, his voice shaking with murderous rage.
Antonio began sweating profusely.
“Salvatore, it’s a setup! Luca fabricated those documents!”
“I didn't fabricate anything,” I said, stepping forward.
I pulled the bloodstained thermal paper from my evening bag and tossed it onto Marcone’s table.
“That is the digital authorization signed by Vanessa Bellini at 3:14 a.m.,” I told Marcone.
“She used the private offshore clearance protocol to authorize the transfer from the Chicago vault.”
Marcone picked up the slip.
He read the cryptographic signature.
He knew that cipher.
It was the private key only the five families possessed.
Marcone looked up at Antonio.
All the respect, all the brotherhood forged over forty years vanished into thin air.
“You broke the oath, Antonio,” Marcone said, his voice deadly quiet.
Luca jumped down from the table.
He landed silently on his feet right between Antonio and me.
He didn't take his eyes off his father.
“Twelve years ago, you killed my mother because she refused to let you steal from our people,” Luca said.
He stepped closer to Antonio.
“You killed Marcus Vance because he traced your offshore shell companies.”
Luca raised his right pistol, pressing the cold steel barrel against Antonio’s forehead.
“And you tried to burn my sister and me alive in our own home.”
Antonio’s chest heaved.
The arrogant, untouchable Don was finally cornered.
He looked around the room.
His capos, the men he thought were loyal to him, looked away.
They were looking at Luca.
They were looking at the true Don of Chicago.
“Luca,” Antonio whispered, his voice trembling for the first time.
“I am your father. Blood does not kill blood.”
Luca’s gray eyes were devoid of mercy.
“You stopped being my father the day you put mother in that grave.”
Suddenly, Vanessa lunged forward.
She pulled a small silver derringer from her evening purse.
Her face was twisted into a mask of pure madness.
“If I don't get the empire, nobody does!” she shrieked.
She aimed the gun straight at Luca’s back.
BANG!
A gunshot echoed through the ballroom.
Vanessa froze.
The derringer slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the marble.
She looked down at her chest in utter shock.
A small, blooming crimson circle appeared on the silk of her red dress.
Standing ten feet away was me.
My hands were locked in a two-handed shooting stance.
Smoke curled gently from the barrel of the pearl-handled .25 pistol.
Vanessa looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“You... you useless... maid...” she choked out.
Then her knees buckled.
Vanessa Bellini collapsed onto the ballroom floor, motionless.
I lowered the gun.
My hands were shaking, but my breathing was steady.
I had aimed for the shoulder, just as Luca had taught me.
She was alive, but her reign was over.
Luca turned and looked at me.
A look of profound admiration and awe flared in his eyes.
Then he turned back to Antonio.
Antonio dropped to his knees.
His obsidian cane rolled across the floor.
“Luca... please...” Antonio begged.
Luca did not pull the trigger.
Instead, he lowered his weapon.
“Death is too easy for you, Antonio,” Luca said coldly.
Luca turned toward Salvatore Marcone.
“Don Marcone.”
Marcone looked up from the table.
“Luca.”
“The two point four billion dollars will be returned to the Commission accounts within the hour,” Luca stated.
“In exchange, the Chicago Outfit remains entirely under my control. Independent. Permanent.”
Marcone looked at Antonio kneeling in the dirt.
Then he looked at Luca, standing tall with an iron grip on the city.
Marcone slowly nodded his head.
“Agreed,” Marcone rasped.
“And what about your father?”
Luca turned his back on Antonio.
“He is no longer a Moretti,” Luca declared.
“Hand him over to the federal authorities. Marcus Vance’s department has been waiting twelve years to serve his warrant.”
Two massive New York enforcers stepped forward, grabbed Antonio by his arms, and hauled him away like a common criminal.
Antonio screamed curses, thrashing in their grip as the elevator doors closed on him forever.
The ballroom was silent once more.
Luca walked through the crowd of silent mobsters.
He walked straight toward me.
He stopped inches away.
He reached out and gently took the smoking pistol from my trembling fingers.
He engaged the safety and slid the weapon into his tuxedo pocket.
Then he wrapped his strong, warm arms around my waist.
He pulled me against his chest.
I buried my face in his neck, the scent of sandalwood and rain washing over me.
May you like
“It's over, Emma,” he whispered against my hair.
“You’re safe.”
