Chapter 8 - The Price of Loyalty
By late afternoon, the storm in Oyster Bay had passed.
The family council had unanimously ratified Dante as the new operational head of the syndicate, with Caterina maintaining her position as supreme matriarch. Victor and Paulie Vance were locked away in a secure holding facility forty miles upstate, waiting to discover whether they’d spend the rest of their lives in a federal prison or quietly disappearing off the coast of Montauk.
In the grand study of the Oyster Bay mansion, the afternoon sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting patterns of ruby and sapphire across the Persian rug.
Elena sat in a plush leather armchair, a cup of Earl Grey tea steaming between her hands.
Dante stood by the window, looking out over the manicured lawn toward the sparkling waters of the Sound. He had removed his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, muscular forearms corded with tension.
Caterina sat across from Elena, looking older now that the adrenaline of the coup had faded, but deeply, profoundly relieved.
“You realize,” Caterina said softly, taking a sip of her own tea, “that you can never go back to cleaning hotel rooms in Manhattan, Elena.”
Elena looked up, her heart doing a nervous flutter. “What do you mean?”
“Victor’s associates are locked up, but syndicates have long memories,” Caterina said, her voice serious. “Even if they’re afraid of Dante, some low-level soldier might try to make a name for himself by coming after you or Mia. You cannot live in Astoria anymore.”
“I have my job. I have my apartment,” Elena protested, though she knew the old woman was right. Astoria wasn't safe anymore. The world of the Morettis had reached into her life and torn it completely apart.
“You had a job,” Dante corrected, turning away from the window and walking toward them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick, heavy manila folder, placing it gently on the coffee table between them.
Elena picked it up and opened it.
Inside were deeds, bank documents, and corporate filings.
“What is this?” she whispered.
“Title to a four-bedroom brownstone in Brooklyn Heights,” Dante said, his slate-gray eyes fixed steadily on hers. “Completely paid in full. Secure perimeter, private courtyard, and a public school two blocks away that ranks in the top five in the state.”
Elena stared at the papers, her breath catching in her throat. “I... I can't accept this. I helped an old woman on the street. I didn't do it to get real estate.”
“I know you didn't,” Dante said, his voice softening, losing the hard, dangerous edge it usually carried. “If you had asked for money on that sidewalk, my men would have handed you a fifty and told you to move along. But you didn't. You gave my grandmother water when she was invisible to the rest of the world.”
Caterina reached across the table and covered Elena’s hand with her own wrinkled, diamond-ringed fingers.
“In our world, Elena, loyalty is the only currency that matters,” Caterina said gently. “You and Mia are part of our family now. Whether you want to be or not.”
Elena looked from the old woman to Dante. She thought about her tiny, cramped studio in Astoria, the endless double shifts at the hotel, the constant, grinding fear of rent increases and broken heaters. She thought about Mia’s future.
Slowly, she closed the manila folder.
“Does the brownstone have a yard?” she asked.
May you like
Dante smiled—a rare, genuine smile that made him look less like a syndicate boss and more like a normal man in his thirties.
“A big one,” Dante said. “With an old oak tree and room enough for a swing set.”
