Chapter 5 - The Snake's Move
By eight o'clock the following evening, the central penthouse of the DeLuca Tower in Manhattan was filled with high-ranking captains and lieutenants of the family business.
At the head of the long mahogany conference table sat Victor Vance. He was a silver-haired man of fifty-five, dressed in an immaculate bespoke suit, wearing an expression of grave, practiced sympathy.
"Gentlemen," Victor declared, placing his hands on the table. "Lorenzo has not been seen at the estate since yesterday afternoon. His grief has finally overwhelmed his ability to lead this family. With the Chicago Outfit pressing our southern borders, we cannot afford to remain leaderless."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
"As CFO," Victor continued smoothly, pulling a set of legal documents from his leather briefcase, "I am invoking Section 4 of our charter to assume temporary management of the family's assets until Lorenzo recovers... or steps down formally."
"Section 4 requires a unanimous vote of the inner council, Victor," Marcus, a loyal older captain, pointed out coldly.
"And he has it," a heavy voice boomed from the doorway.
Two armed guards stepped aside as Frank Moretti—a high-ranking lieutenant from the Chicago Outfit—walked into the room flanked by four heavy enforcers.
The room erupted into shouting. Captains reached for their shoulder holsters, but Victor’s personal security detail drew their weapons first, pointing them directly at the loyalists.
"What is the meaning of this, Victor?!" Marcus roared. "You brought Chicago into our house?!"
"I brought stability!" Victor snapped, his smooth facade dropping into arrogant ambition. "Lorenzo became weak the moment he fell in love with that woman! And he stayed weak after she died! He’s spent two months crying in his study while millions sat idle! Chicago offers us expansion, power, and real profit!"
"And what about Isabella's death, Victor?" a voice asked from the rear shadow of the executive elevator.
The voice was low, smooth, and instantly recognizable.
Every man in the room froze.
The doors of the private elevator slid open.
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Lorenzo DeLuca stepped into the boardroom. He wore a crisp black suit, his hands in his pockets, his posture towering and absolute. Behind him stood Mason and six elite strike team members armed with assault rifles.
Beside Lorenzo walked Isabella.
