Chapter 3 - Retaliation
The Grand Delancey Hotel on Manhattan’s Upper East Side had belonged to the syndicate’s shared council for over sixty years. Its fifth-floor boardroom was soundproofed with military-grade acoustic panels, swept daily for surveillance bugs, and surrounded by armed guards from three different factions.
At seven-fifty-five the next morning, Luca Moretti stepped out of the private elevator.
He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit. His silver cuff links caught the chandelier light. Flanking him were Mateo and three of his most trusted enforcers. But it was the thick leather folder tucked under Mateo’s arm that carried the real ammunition.
Inside the boardroom, the air smelled of stale espresso and old cigar smoke.
Seated around the thirty-foot mahogany table were the heads of the New York and New Jersey families. At the far end sat Alberto Romano—sixty-eight years old, silver-haired, with heavy jowls and the arrogant posture of a man who believed his bloodline was untouchable.
Sitting two chairs down from Alberto was Bianca.
She was dressed in a modest black dress, her face meticulously painted to look pale and victimized. A delicate silk scarf was wrapped around her neck, suggesting an injury that didn't exist. When Luca walked in, she shrank back with theatrical precision.
“Luca,” Alberto boomed, slamming an open palm onto the table. “You have some nerve showing your face here without an apology on your tongue.”
Luca did not take a seat. He walked to the head of the table, resting both hands on the high back of an empty leather chair. “The only thing I apologize for, Alberto, is not checking your daughter’s phone records six months ago.”
A murmur rippled through the older dons.
Don Salvatore, the oldest living member of the council, leaned forward, tapping his gold-headed cane against the floor. “Luca. Alberto claims you struck his daughter, threw her into the rain, and called off an alliance approved by this council. In our world, an oath is blood. You don't break it over a domestic squabble.”
“It wasn't a domestic squabble,” Luca said calmly. He gestured to Mateo. “It was espionage.”
Mateo stepped forward and slapped the leather folder onto the center of the table.
“Inside that folder,” Luca explained, his voice ringing with absolute authority, “are the digital extraction logs from Bianca Romano’s secondary device. Yesterday afternoon, while under my roof, she transmitted the bill of lading for three of my maritime shipments to a prepaid cell phone registered to a shell company in Jersey City.”
Luca leaned down, his eyes locking onto Bianca’s. She went paper-white, clutching her designer purse against her ribs.
“And who owns that shell company, Bianca?” Luca asked softly.
Silence gripped the room.
“Speak up,” Luca commanded.
“This is an outrage!” Alberto roared, standing up so violently his chair scraped back against the marble baseboards. “You fabricated this! You’re framing my little girl to cover up the fact that you’ve been sleeping with your maid!”
Luca’s expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room plummeted. “What did you say?”
“We know about the girl, Luca!” Alberto sneered, looking around at the other dons for support. “Emma Carter. A nobody from upstate. Bianca caught her red-handed in your safe, and instead of putting a bullet in her, you took the maid into your private quarters and kicked my daughter out! You’ve compromised this entire alliance for a common servant!”
“The common servant,” Luca said, his tone razor-sharp, “has two degrees in forensic accounting. Something you would have known if you had vetted the people working in my house before trying to frame them.”
The dons exchanged uneasy glances.
Luca straightened his cuffs. “Emma Carter was personally vetted by me two years ago when she came to work for my estate. When Bianca couldn't bypass my safe yesterday, she took a riding crop to Emma’s back to force a false confession. But Emma didn't break. And when my forensic techs pulled the data off the router Bianca was using, we found something else.”
Luca turned to Don Salvatore. “Declan Vance received the coordinates for my shipments. But Vance didn't keep them. He forwarded them to a private buyer in Montreal. Alberto’s brother-in-law.”
Alberto’s mouth fell open. He looked down at Bianca, his face turning a mottled shade of crimson. “Bianca... what did he just say?”
Bianca didn't answer. She couldn't.
“You tried to steal from me, Alberto,” Luca said, stepping closer to the old man. “You used your daughter to spy on my contracts, fed the intelligence to my worst enemy to drive down my stock prices, and planned to buy out my logistics division at a fifty percent discount after the wedding.”
Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out the four-carat emerald engagement ring. He tossed it. It skittered across the polished wood and came to a stop directly in front of Alberto’s coffee cup.
“The Romano family is stripped of its voting rights on the council,” Luca declared, looking around the table. “Salvatore, do you object?”
Salvatore looked at the documents, then at Alberto’s trembling hands. “No objection.”
“Moretti Holdings will seize the Romano docks in Bayonne as restitution for the leaked manifests,” Luca continued. “If Alberto or his daughter are seen south of Westchester after tonight, they will be treated as hostile combatants.”
Luca turned on his heel and walked toward the exit.
“Luca!” Bianca screamed, finally breaking her composure, her voice shrill and desperate as she lunged from her chair. “Luca, please! Vance threatened me! He said he’d ruin my father if I didn't help him!”
Luca didn't even slow his stride.
“You should have let him,” Luca said without looking back.
As the elevator doors closed on the chaos of the boardroom, Mateo tapped his earpiece, listened for three seconds, and looked at Luca with sudden alarm.
May you like
“Boss,” Mateo said, his hand dropping to his sidearm. “Perimeter alert at the Greenwich estate. Two black SUVs just breached the south gate. They’re going after Emma.”
***
