Chapter 9 - THE SUMMIT IN VERONA
The summit was held in a private, subterranean dining hall beneath an ancient palazzo in the heart of Verona—a neutral ground that had served the syndicates for over a century.
The room was lit by iron chandeliers, the air heavy with cigar smoke, roasted meats, and the suffocating tension of men who survived by watching each other’s hands.
Around the long marble table sat the heads of the four regional families. At the head of the table sat Matteo Valenti—a sharp-featured young man wearing a flashy designer suit, a heavy gold watch gleaming on his wrist, flanked by six heavily armed bodyguards.
The heavy iron doors at the end of the hall swung open.
Lorenzo Duca stepped into the room.
He wore a dark charcoal suit, tailored to perfection, walking with the calm, measured stride of a king entering his own court. He was accompanied by only one man—Marco, who walked three paces behind him, carrying a plain black leather briefcase.
The room went dead silent. The other bosses bowed their heads slightly in respect, but Matteo stayed leaning back in his chair, a smirking, arrogant smile touching his lips.
“Lorenzo,” Matteo called out, gesturing to an empty chair at the far end of the table. “You made it. We were beginning to think you were too busy playing house in Solferino to attend to serious business.”
A few faint chuckles echoed from Matteo’s bodyguards, but none of the other bosses smiled. They knew Lorenzo Duca too well.
Lorenzo didn't sit down. He stood at the end of the table, his hands resting lightly on the back of the high wooden chair.
“Matteo,” Lorenzo said, his voice calm, clear, and perfectly steady. “You called a summit.”
“I did,” Matteo said, leaning forward, slamming his palms onto the table. “Because the old ways are dead, Duca! My uncle was an old man who let you take the lion’s share of Genoa! Times have changed. The Valenti family wants forty percent of the northern shipping revenue starting midnight tonight. Or we shut down the ports.”
Lorenzo studied the young man’s face. He saw arrogance, greed, and a total lack of discipline—the exact qualities that killed men early in this world.
“And if I say no?” Lorenzo asked softly.
Matteo sneered, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a glossy photograph, sliding it across the long marble table.
The photograph showed the outer gate of Lorenzo’s estate, taken from a distance through a telescopic lens. Walking through the gate was Elena, holding Mia’s hand, with Barnaby trotting beside them.
The air in the room instantly turned to liquid ice.
The other bosses looked at the photograph, then at Lorenzo, their expressions darkening. Threatening a man’s family was a line that hadn't been crossed in Northern Italy for thirty years.
“You have a lovely family, Lorenzo,” Matteo whispered, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “It would be a terrible shame if something happened to that pretty girl or her little bastard. Agree to the forty percent, or I send twenty men to Solferino tonight.”
Lorenzo didn't gasp. He didn't yell. He didn't draw a gun.
He slowly reached down, picked up the photograph, and looked at it. A faint, terrible smile touched the corners of his lips—a smile so dark, so completely devoid of human warmth, that Matteo’s smirking confidence suddenly wavered.
“Matteo,” Lorenzo said smoothly, looking up. “Do you know why I brought Marco into this room with a briefcase?”
Matteo blinked, unnerved. “What?”
Lorenzo nodded to Marco.
Marco set the black leather briefcase on the table, unclipped the latches, and opened it.
Inside was not money. Inside was a tablet screen showing four live video feeds.
Each video feed showed a different location in Milan and Verona: Matteo’s private villa, his secondary apartment where his mistress lived, his legal shipping offices, and the private club where his four senior captains spent their evenings.
Standing in the frame of every single video feed were four teams of Lorenzo’s men, fully armed, holding tactical detonators and heavy weapons, waiting for a single signal.
The entire dining hall gasped. The other three bosses backed their chairs away from Matteo as if he were covered in plague.
“You thought I was playing house, Matteo,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying whisper that echoed off the stone walls. “You thought because I opened my heart to a child, I forgot how to butcher my enemies. You sent scouts to my gate... while I placed my blade directly against your throat.”
Matteo’s face turned completely white. His hands began to shake violently against the marble table. “Duca... wait...”
“If you ever speak my daughter’s name again,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward, pressing his face close to Matteo’s, “if any man carrying your money ever looks toward Solferino again... I will erase your entire bloodline from this earth in thirty seconds.”
Lorenzo reached down, picked up his briefcase, and turned his back on the room.
“The Genoa agreement remains ninety-ten in my favor,” Lorenzo called over his shoulder as he walked toward the heavy iron doors. “And Matteo... you owe me an apology for ruining my evening.”
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Matteo collapsed back into his chair, breathing heavily, completely broken, unable to utter a single word as the other bosses looked at him with absolute contempt.
Lorenzo walked out into the cold Verona night, completely victorious without firing a single shot.
