Chapter 9 - The Bloodline
The grand foyer of the Moretti mansion was bathed in the warm, golden light of the central chandelier when Carlo Moretti stepped across the threshold.
He shook the water from his silver umbrella, handing it to a waiting guard, his handsome, patrician face arranged in an expression of deep, grandfatherly sorrow.
"Luca, my boy," Carlo said smoothly, opening his arms as he walked across the marble floor. "I came the moment I heard about the scandal with the Bellini girl. My God... what an embarrassment. What a tragedy."
Luca stood at the bottom of the grand sweeping staircase, his hands resting easily in his pockets, his posture relaxed, deadly, like a panther watching an old wolf limp into a trap.
Daniel stood three paces behind him, flanked by four Moretti soldiers whose weapons were holstered but ready.
"You're out late, Uncle Carlo," Luca said, his voice polite and completely devoid of warmth. "The weather is treacherous along the lake."
"A family crisis doesn't wait for good weather, Luca," Carlo sighed, stopping five paces away, leaning his weight onto his silver-topped cane. "I spoke with Antonio Bellini an hour ago. The man is beside himself. He claims Vanessa acted alone, that the girl was out of her mind on prescription drugs. But the damage is done. The Commission is already talking about emergency sanctions against our shipping lines."
"Is that so?" Luca tilted his head.
"Yes," Carlo said, taking a step closer, lowering his voice into a confidential murmur. "They want stability, Luca. They think you've become... emotional. Bringing an old dog into an engagement dinner, screaming at your fiancée in front of state senators... it doesn't project strength."
Carlo sighed, shaking his head with manufactured regret.
"I think it would be best for everyone if you stepped down from the executive board for six months. Go to our villa in Tuscany. Clear your head. Let me manage the logistics merger with New York until the dust settles."
A cold, terrifying smile spread across Luca’s lips.
It was the same smile I had seen in the dining room hours earlier—the smile of a predator who had already sprung the jaws of the trap.
"Tuscany sounds lovely, Uncle," Luca whispered. "Perhaps I could take Bruno and Freya with me."
Carlo’s hand tightened on the silver head of his cane.
The microscopic twitch in his left eyebrow would have been invisible to anyone who wasn't looking for it, but Luca saw it. Daniel saw it.
"Freya?" Carlo forced a small, patronizing chuckle. "Luca, darling boy, your father's dog died four years ago. You’re letting your grief play tricks on your mind."
"She didn't die, Carlo," Luca said, his voice dropping into that lethal, razor-sharp whisper that echoed off the high ceilings. "Vanessa kept her in a six-by-six concrete room in the back of my carriage house. With a padlock around her neck and sixty million dollars in union pension codes scratched into her collar."
Carlo went completely still.
The grandfatherly warmth vanished from his features like oil wiped from a blade, replaced by an icy, arrogant detachment that had spent forty years hiding in the shadows of his older brother's shadow.
"You always were too sentimental, Luca," Carlo sneered, his voice losing all its softness. "Just like your father. Antonio thought loyalty was something you earned with respect and fair wages. In this city, loyalty is bought with leverage and iron."
Carlo raised his left hand slightly.
Outside the high glass front doors, the eight armed men in tactical gear stepped forward onto the portico, their submachine guns raised, their laser sights painting bright red dots across the marble foyer floor.
"Sign the transfer deeds for the shipping lines, nephew," Carlo commanded softly. "And I will let you board that flight to Tuscany alive. Refuse... and you will join your father in an unmarked grave beneath the river wall."
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't reach for his gun.
Instead, he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers.
From the shadows of the arched gallery behind the staircase, a sound began to rise.
A low, deep, rhythmic growl that vibrated through the floorboards like an approaching earthquake.
Bruno and Freya stepped out of the shadows.
Freya walked slightly ahead, her ears pinned flat, her amber eyes locked onto Carlo’s throat with an ancient, unyielding hatred. Bruno flanked her left side, his gray muzzle wrinkled back over white teeth, his hackles raised in a sharp ridge along his spine.
Behind them, stepping into the light with a twelve-gauge shotgun held casually across his chest, stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with silver hair and a crooked, scarred nose.
May you like
A man who had supposedly died in a burning car on the South Side docks four years ago.
Antonio Moretti.
