Chapter 4 - The Manhattan Summit
The private dining room at L'Hermitage on Upper East Side was empty save for six men.
Rain drummed hard against the reinforced bay windows looking out over Madison Avenue. Outside, four black Escalades lined the curb, engines idling, filled with armed Moretti soldiers.
Dominic Moretti sat at the head of a long mahogany table, sipping sparkling water. Across from him sat Don Vito Valenti, an eighty-year-old man with snow-white hair, liver spots on his hands, and eyes as sharp as polished steel. Beside Vito sat his son, Salvatore Valenti—a heavy-set man in his late forties with a pockmarked face, wearing a sharp Italian suit that couldn't hide his aggressive stance.
On the left side of Salvatore’s thick neck, partially hidden by his starched collar, was the dark blue tattoo of a crow in flight.
"You called an emergency sit-down on two hours' notice, Dominic," Vito Valenti said, his voice raspy from decades of cigar smoke. "My bones ache in this weather. This better not be about garbage routes in Queens."
Dominic set his glass down with a soft clink. He didn't look at Vito. His gaze was fixed entirely on Salvatore.
"Last night was Ethan’s eighth birthday," Dominic said smoothly.
Salvatore sneered slightly. "Yeah? Happy birthday to the kid. Sent him a card."
"The cake was poisoned," Dominic continued, ignoring the interruption. "Potassium cyanide mixed into the strawberry buttercream. A lethal dose."
VitoValenti’s eyes widened slightly, shifting toward his son before returning to Dominic. "Poison? That's a woman's weapon. A coward's weapon. The Moretti-Valenti treaty explicitly bans targeting children. You know this, Dominic."
"I know the treaty," Dominic said. "I also know that at six o'clock yesterday evening, a man with a blue crow tattooed on his neck was seen inside my estate's cold room, lacing my son's birthday cake."
Salvatore slammed a heavy hand on the table. "That's a lie! You're setting me up, Moretti! I was at my club in Brooklyn all afternoon!"
"Your club’s security logs say you left at four p.m. and didn't return until eight," Dominic countered without raising his voice. "And my eye-witness saw your tattoo."
Salvatore laughed mockingly. "An eye-witness? Who? One of your paid guards? Some kitchen staff looking for a payout?"
"A three-year-old girl," Dominic said. "The daughter of my head housekeeper. She saw you—or one of your direct lieutenants—in the cold room. She stopped my son from taking the first bite."
Salvatore leaned forward, his face twisting into a malicious grin. "A three-year-old brat? You’re bringing me out here in the rain based on the fairy tales of a maid’s kid? Dominic, you’ve lost your mind. Maybe the grief over your dead wife finally broke you."
CRACK.
Before Vito or Salvatore’s bodyguards could react, Dominic moved with terrifying speed. He reached across the table, grabbed Salvatore by his silk tie, and slammed the heavy man’s face down onto the mahogany surface.
Plates shattered. Glasses fell.
In a fraction of a second, four bodyguards drew their firearms. Marco, standing right behind Dominic, drew a silenced pistol and aimed it directly at Vito Valenti’s head.
The room froze in a high-stakes standoff.
Dominic held Salvatore’s face pinned against the table, his hand gripping the back of Salvatore’s neck right over the blue crow tattoo.
"Listen to me very carefully, Salvatore," Dominic growled, his voice vibrating with absolute malice. "If that little girl so much as gets a cold, I will hunt down every man who wears this mark. I will rip your empire apart dollar by dollar, body by body. Do you understand me?"
"Dominic! Stop!" Vito shouted, his hands raised palms-out. "Let him go!"
Dominic tightened his grip for three long seconds, feeling Salvatore thrashing beneath his palm, before releasing him. Salvatore stumbled back into his chair, gasping for air, bleeding slightly from a cut on his nose.
Dominic stood up, buttoning his suit jacket calmly. He looked down at the elder Valenti.
"Vito. You are an old-school man. You respect the rules," Dominic said coldly. "You have twenty-four hours to produce the rat inside my house who gave your son access to my kitchen. If you don't... the treaty is dead. And so is Brooklyn."
Dominic turned and walked out of the room. Marco followed, keeping his gun raised until the heavy oak doors closed behind them.
Inside the private room, Salvatore wiped the blood from his nose with a linen napkin, his eyes burning with hatred.
"Father," Salvatore hissed. "We can't let him walk away after this! He put a hands on me!"
Old Vito Valenti slowly stood up, looking at his son not with anger, but with deep disappointment and fear.
"You idiot," Vito whispered. "You sloppy, arrogant idiot."
"What?" Salvatore spat.
"You thought you could kill the Moretti boy and make it look like an accidental food reaction?" Vito said, his voice trembling. "And now Dominic knows. You didn't just fail, Salvatore. You gave a tiger a reason to tear us all to pieces."
"The maid’s kid didn't see my face!" Salvatore growled, pulling a burner phone from his pocket. "And she won't be talking to anyone ever again."
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"Salvatore, no—" Vito warned.
"It's already in motion," Salvatore smirked, tapping out a rapid message. "If the Moretti estate goes up in flames tonight, nobody will care about a three-year-old's story."
