Chapter 27 - The Traitor’s Feast
The grand dining hall of the Moretti estate was draped in heavy black velvet. Candelabras lined the forty-foot mahogany table, their flickering flames casting dancing, menacing shadows across the gilded walls.
At the far end of the room, behind a massive screen of dark silk, Luca sat hidden in the shadows, an unseen god watching over his own wake. Only Marco, two trusted snipers in the rafters, and I knew he was breathing.
I sat at the head of the long table, dressed in a sweeping black mourning gown of crushed velvet, a veil of delicate black lace obscuring the upper half of my face. My posture was straight, rigid, radiating the cold, untouchable elegance of a grieving widow who refused to break.
The heavy double doors swung open, and the heads of the Five Families walked in.
There were four older men, seasoned killers who had survived decades of gang warfare, their expressions somber and guarded. But leading them, walking with the puffed-up chest of a conquering general, was Don Valenti.
Valenti was sixty, with slicked-back silver hair, expensive Italian tailoring, and eyes like a rat sniffing out cheese. He wore a black suit, but his silk tie had a subtle sheen of silver—too bright for a true funeral, a subconscious proclamation of celebration.
"Signora Moretti," Valenti said, his voice dripping with theatrical, honeyed sorrow as he approached the head of the table. He bowed low, taking my gloved hand and pressing his cold, dry lips to the fabric. "Our hearts weep for you. The entire city is in mourning. To lose such a titan... such a visionary as Luca... it is a tragedy beyond words."
I withdrew my hand smoothly, resting it flat on the dark wood. "Your condolences are noted, Don Valenti. Please, gentlemen, sit. Drink the wine my late husband preserved for this exact vintage."
The men took their seats around the table. Servants poured deep crimson Chianti into crystal goblets. The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on.
Valenti cleared his throat, leaning his elbows on the table. "Elena... if I may be so informal in this time of grief... we must speak of the future. The Russian syndicate is already encroaching on the northern docks. Without Luca’s iron hand, the streets will turn red with the blood of our soldiers. The family needs leadership. Decisive, experienced leadership."
"Is that so?" I replied, tilting my head, the black veil concealing the sharp, dangerous smile curving my lips. "And who would you propose to fill my husband’s seat, Don Valenti? You?"
Valenti gave a modest, self-satisfied chuckle. "I was his father’s right hand, Elena. I know the business better than anyone living. The Commission has already conferred in private. Out of respect for the Moretti name, we will provide you and the little mute bastard a generous pension—millions. A villa in Tuscany, far from the violence."
The room went dead silent.
Calling Isabella a "mute bastard" in the house Luca built was a sin worthy of the deepest circle of hell. Behind the silk partition, I heard the faint, metallic *click* of a slide racking back on a custom Beretta.
I didn't flinch. I slowly leaned forward, lifting my black veil and pinning Valenti with a gaze so venomous the old man blinked in sudden discomfort.
"My daughter is the rightful heir to the Moretti legacy," I said, each word dropping like an icicle onto the mahogany. "And you, Valenti, are a dead man walking."
Valenti scoffed, his face flushing red with sudden anger. "Watch your tongue, girl! You are a mute's translator who got lucky in a wedding dress. Luca is dead! You have no army, you have no power, and if you step out of line, you will join your husband at the bottom of the bay!"
"Is that a fact, Giorgio?"
The voice did not come from me.
It came from the dark silk partition at the back of the room. It was low, raspy, but laced with a lethal, demonic resonance that made every single Don at the table freeze as if turned to stone.
The black silk curtain was drawn aside.
Luca Moretti stepped into the candlelight.
He wore no sling. His black shirt was open at the collar, revealing the thick surgical tape beneath, but his posture was that of an apex predator. In his right hand, he held his Beretta, the heavy steel gleaming under the chandeliers. Behind him, twelve Moretti soldiers armed with suppressed assault rifles materialized from the shadows, boxing the room in completely.
Valenti’s goblet slipped from his hand, shattering against the china plate, splashing red wine across the white linen like a fresh pool of blood. His face drained of all color, his jaw hanging slack, his eyes bulging in pure, unadulterated horror.
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"L-Luca..." Valenti stammered, his knees shaking so violently his chair rattled against the floor. "You're... you were dead... Rossi said—"
"Rossi is paid to keep me alive," Luca said softly, his heavy boots echoing on the hardwood as he slowly stalked toward the table. "And I pay him very well to lie to snakes."
