Chapter 7 - A Traitor at the Syndicate Table
Two hours later, the black caravan pulled back through the iron gates of the Moretti estate.
The storm had begun to clear, leaving a pristine blanket of white over the manicured grounds.
Lucia had been transported directly to the syndicate’s private medical wing on the third floor, escorted by three trauma surgeons and eight armed guards.
Now, the heavy double doors of the grand dining hall swung open once more.
The forty syndicate capos and regional bosses had not been allowed to leave.
They sat around the ruined dinner table, surrounded by armed Moretti soldiers with submachine guns.
Vanessa Bellini sat tied to a heavy mahogany chair at the foot of the table, her makeup completely ruined, her emerald dress torn.
When the doors opened, every head snapped toward the entrance.
Luca stepped into the room.
He had changed out of his snow-soaked jacket into a clean, charcoal-grey bespoke suit.
His eyes burned with absolute, untouchable authority.
Beside him walked me.
I no longer wore the maid’s uniform.
I wore a dark navy-blue silk dress that Isabella had brought down from her own suite with shaking hands.
The crescent moon beneath my collarbone was clearly visible.
Luca walked straight to the head of the table.
He didn't sit down.
He slammed his scarred palms onto the polished wood.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
“The Bellini family is finished,” Luca announced to the room.
Whispers broke out, but a single glare from Luca silenced the entire syndicate.
“Carlo Bellini kept my mother chained in an abandoned asylum for twenty-two years,” Luca said, his voice vibrating with ice.
“He stole millions from my grandfather's trust.”
He pointed down the table at Vanessa.
“And he put this imposter in my bed to secure his claim.”
Vanessa spat on the floor.
“You’re pathetic, Luca! My father will turn this city to ash before you take our territory!”
Luca stepped toward her, slow and deliberate.
“Your father is currently sitting in my wine cellar with a shattered knee.”
Vanessa’s face went entirely white.
“No... you’re lying.”
“He gave up everything thirty minutes ago,” Luca said softly.
“Including the names of his partners inside this room.”
A cold dread swept through the forty capos.
Men began shifting uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting toward the exits.
Luca stopped behind the chair of Salvatore Russo, one of his oldest and most trusted lieutenants.
Luca rested a heavy, tattooed hand on Salvatore’s shoulder.
Salvatore went completely rigid.
A bead of sweat rolled down the older man’s temple.
“Salvatore,” Luca murmured.
“L-Luca... you know I’ve been loyal since your father took the oath,” Salvatore stammered, his fingers twitching near his napkin.
“I know you have,” Luca replied smoothly.
“Which is why I was surprised to find three offshore transfers from Carlo’s shell company into your Cayman account.”
Salvatore lunged out of his chair, reaching for a snub-nosed revolver hidden in his ankle holster.
Bang!
Daniel fired once from the doorway.
Salvatore collapsed forward onto the table, his blood spreading across the fine china.
Nobody screamed.
In the mafia, traitors died where they sat.
Luca didn't even look at the body.
He turned his gaze toward Vanessa.
“You wanted to burn my mother's coat, Vanessa.”
He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out the tiny, yellowed hospital bracelet bearing the name Elena Moretti.
He walked over to where I stood.
Luca took my right wrist.
With gentle, steady hands, he fastened the old plastic bracelet around my wrist.
The brittle clasp snapped into place with a definitive click.
“Elena is home,” Luca declared to the room.
“And anyone who challenges her blood will meet the same fate as Carlo and Salvatore.”
Every capo at that table stood up simultaneously.
One by one, the hardened, lethal men bowed their heads toward me.
“Long live the Moretti family,” they chanted in unison.
My heart pounded violently against my ribs.
Twelve hours ago, I was picking up discarded champagne glasses.
Now, forty ruthless killers were bowing to my name.
Suddenly, a hidden side door behind the fireplace burst open.
A masked gunman in black tactical gear burst into the room.
He raised an automatic machine pistol directly toward Luca’s back.
“Moretti!” the shooter screamed.
Luca was turning, but he was too far.
His weapon was still holstered.
There was no time.
My body moved before my brain could process the danger.
I lunged forward, throwing my arms around Luca’s neck, shielding his broad chest with my own body.
Crack! Crack!
May you like
A blinding, searing fire tore through my left shoulder.
The impact threw us both to the hard marble floor.
