Chapter 7 - The Serpent at the Table
The grand dining room of the Caruso estate was draped in dark mahogany paneling, lit by low crystal sconces that cast long shadows across the polished table.
At seven o'clock that evening, four men sat around the twelve-foot dining table. These were the captains of the Caruso crime family—men who controlled the city's docks, construction unions, extortion rackets, and illegal gambling dens.
There was Dominic "The Hammer" Rossi, an elderly, silver-haired man who had served Enzo's father; Victor Vance, a sharp-dressed, slick man in his late thirties who managed the family's financial shell companies; Franky "Red" Moretti, a massive, scarred man who oversaw enforcement; and Julian Mercer, a quiet, analytical man who managed the family's shipping logistics at the docks.
Sarah sat at the head of the table beside Enzo, wearing an elegant dark green velvet dress that covered her bandages while accentuating her soft features. Her face was still pale, but she sat upright, radiating a quiet, calm dignity.
Toby sat across from her, looking uncomfortable in his new suit, while Leo sat next to his father, eating quietly.
"A toast!" Dominic Rossi stood up, raising his crystal glass of red wine. "To Don Lorenzo! And to his brave new bride, Mrs. Sarah Caruso! May her recovery be swift, and may the enemies of our family rot in hell!"
The four captains raised their glasses, shouting their agreement before drinking deeply.
Sarah smiled politely, taking a tiny sip of water. Beneath the table, her hand was clenched tightly in her lap.
Enzo leaned toward her, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Watch their hands," he murmured. "And watch their lapels."
Sarah let her eyes drift slowly across the four men as they ate their steaks and discussed business.
Dominic Rossi was loud, boisterous, and openly emotional, repeatedly offering to send his personal doctor to treat Sarah. Franky Moretti sat quietly, his eyes constantly darting toward the curtained windows, his hand resting near his concealed armpit holster.
Then Sarah looked at Victor Vance—the financial manager.
Victor was wearing a dark Italian suit with a silk pocket square. As he reached across the table to pass the bread basket, his jacket shifted.
Pinned to the inner lining of his suit coat—partially hidden beneath the lapel—was a small silver pin.
It wasn't a serpent. It was a silver lapel pin shaped like an anchor.
Sarah frowned, shifting her gaze to Julian Mercer, the quiet logistics manager sitting at the far end of the table.
Julian was eating his salad with precise, methodical movements. He spoke rarely, answering Enzo’s questions with brief, respectful nods. But Sarah noticed something subtle: every time Enzo mentioned the incident at the Halston Hotel, Julian’s left thumb rubbed rhythmically against his signet ring.
It was a nervous tic.
Sarah turned her head slightly, studying Julian’s lapel. He wore no pin on his jacket. But as he reached for his wine glass, the cuff of his shirt pulled back slightly, exposing his left wrist.
Tattooed on the inside of his wrist, partially concealed beneath a thick leather watch band, was a faint, ink-drawn outline of a coiled serpent wrapped around a dagger.
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
It wasn't just a pin, she realized with a sudden, terrifying clarity. The silver serpent wasn't just a piece of jewelry worn by the hitman. It was a permanent mark worn by Marcone’s high-ranking double agents.
She turned her head slowly, looking at Enzo.
Enzo caught her expression immediately. He didn't say a word, but his dark eyes sharpened into black steel.
"Julian," Enzo said suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the dinner conversation like a razor.
Julian paused, his wine glass halfway to his lips. "Yes, Don Lorenzo?"
"You've been very quiet tonight," Enzo said, leaning back in his tall leather chair. "How are things at the Red Hook shipping terminal?"
"Everything is running smoothly, Boss," Julian replied calmly. "The cargo shipments from Rotterdam arrived on schedule yesterday morning."
"Is that so?" Enzo remarked, tapping his fingers against his glass. "That’s strange. Because my sources at the harbor authority tell me two of those shipping containers were diverted to a private warehouse in New Jersey three days ago."
Julian’s face didn't change, but his hand froze over his wine glass. "There must be a mistake in the paperwork, Boss. I'll check the logs personally tomorrow morning."
"Don't bother," Enzo said softly.
He reached under the table, pulled out a heavy black revolver, and placed it calmly onto the white tablecloth right beside his dinner plate.
The room went dead silent.
Dominic, Franky, and Victor instantly froze, their hands dropping away from their eating utensils.
"Enzo..." Dominic whispered, his face pale. "What is this?"
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Enzo didn't look at Dominic. He kept his eyes locked on Julian Mercer.
"My wife has a very sharp eye, Julian," Enzo said, his voice dropping into a chilling, soft whisper. "She recognized the silver serpent on the hitman’s lapel at the hotel. And just now... she recognized the tattoo on your wrist."
