Chapter 5 - The Snake at the Table
By 12:30 PM, the atmosphere inside the Rossy estate had transformed from a quiet, secretive sanctuary into a heavily armed fortress.
Blacked-out SUVs lined the long gravel driveway. Armed guards with submachine guns stood at every entrance, checking the biometric IDs of the high-ranking mafia bosses arriving for the emergency meeting. These were the kapos—the ruthless men who managed the multi-million-dollar criminal arteries of the Eastern Seaboard. For months, rumors had circulated that Vincent Rossy was a walking corpse, a dying king whose empire was ripe for a bloody takeover.
Down in the kitchen, the pressure was suffocating.
Norah stood before a massive stainless-steel roasting pan. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the heavy air conditioning. She was preparing a traditional Italian-American comfort meal: roasted lemon-herb chicken, simple garlic-mashed potatoes made with broth instead of heavy cream, and charred green beans tossed in olive oil and sea salt.
"You have thirty minutes," Enzo said, checking his watch as he walked in. "The men are in the main dining hall. Tensions are high. Salvatore Marcone just arrived."
Norah paused, her knife hovering over a bunch of fresh parsley. "Who is Marcone?"
"The kapo of the Brooklyn docks," Enzo said, dropping his voice to a whisper. "He's old school, ruthless, and he’s been openly buying up loyalty among the younger soldiers while Vincent was sick. If anyone ordered the hit on Vincent, it was Marcone."
"And Vincent wants me to serve him?" Norah felt a cold knot form in her stomach.
"Vincent wants Marcone to see him alive, healthy, and eating," Enzo said grimly. "This lunch isn't a meal, Norah. It's a declaration of war."
At 1:00 PM sharp, the heavy oak doors of the executive dining room were pushed open.
Norah walked in behind Enzo, carrying a large silver platter piled high with the roasted chicken and vegetables. The room was thick with the heavy scent of expensive cigars, cologne, and unspoken malice. Seven men in dark, tailored suits sat around an oval mahogany table.
At the head of the table sat Vincent.
He wore a dark navy suit that fit his lean frame impeccably. His hair was slicked back, his posture commanding, his dark eyes cold and piercing. To an outsider, he looked like a ruthless monarch restored to his throne.
Sitting to his right was Salvatore Marcone—a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair, pockmarked skin, and eyes like a cold-blooded lizard.
As Norah began serving the platters, the men fell silent, staring at the simple, rustic food placed before them.
"What is this?" Marcone scoffed, gesturing at his plate with a heavy gold ring on his pinky finger. "Where is the imported prosciutto? Where are the truffles? Vincent, you bring us here to discuss shipping rights and you serve us hospital food?"
The other kapos offered low, nervous chuckles.
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He reached out, picked up his fork, cut a generous piece of the lemon-herb chicken, and placed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, deliberately, savoring the tender meat, swallowing effortlessly without a single trace of discomfort.
The room went dead quiet.
Every kapo at that table knew Vincent hadn't been able to swallow solid food without screaming in pain for half a year. Seeing him eat with complete ease was like watching a dead man walk out of his grave.
Marcone’s smile faltered, his gray eyes darkening with hidden fury.
"My new chef," Vincent said smoothly, gesturing toward Norah, who stood quietly near the serving cart. "She understands that true power doesn't need to hide behind heavy sauces and complex illusions. Simplicity reveals the truth."
Vincent locked his dark eyes directly onto Marcone.
"Don't you agree, Salvatore?"
Marcone swallowed hard, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his linen napkin. "Of course, Vincent," he rasped out, his fake smile returning like a mask. "Whatever keeps the boss... healthy."
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Norah watched Marcone carefully. She noticed the slight tremor in his hand, the way his gaze darted nervously toward the kitchen doors, and the subtle, cold sweat breaking on his neck.
She had seen that exact look before—on her brother’s face right before he fled town, leaving his debts behind. It was the look of a man whose trap had just failed.
