Chapter 4 - The Locked Cage
Downstairs in the grand dining hall, the crystal chandeliers cast a dim, eerie light over the abandoned tables. The half-eaten salmon sat untouched on Gabriel’s plate, guarded by two armed men.
Marco Bellini stood by the massive stone fireplace, swirling a glass of neat bourbon. The heavy double doors swung open, and Adrienne Vale stepped inside. Her ivory silk gown was pristine, but her hands were shaking as she clutched a leather folder stamped with the Moretti-Vale syndicate insignia.
“Is he dead?” Adrienne asked, her voice tight, devoid of the performance she had put on for the guests.
“Not yet,” Marco muttered, not looking at her. “Nadia is too good. She’s pumping his stomach and filtering his blood. But even if he survives the night, his nervous system will be fried. He’ll be a vegetable by sunrise. The power transfers need to be signed tonight, before the capos realize the boss isn't waking up.”
Adrienne walked over to the mahogany table, setting the folder down. “The senator and the judge have already agreed to honor the alliance as long as leadership passes to you as interim regent. They don't want chaos in the city any more than we do.”
“Good,” Marco smirked, taking a sip of his bourbon. “Everything is falling into place. Once Gabriel signs the proxy, the Vale dynasty controls the political corridors, and I control the docks, the warehouses, and the cash flow. We’ll split the eastern seaboard down the middle.”
“And the girl?” Adrienne asked, her eyes narrowing. “And the housekeeper? They saw too much. If the capos start asking questions—”
“They won’t be asking questions,” a cold, rhythmic voice interrupted from the doorway.
Marco and Adrienne whipped around.
Lucia Moretti stood in the shadow of the arched entryway. She held a heavy, vintage silver-plated candlestick in her right hand, her posture straight, her dark eyes locked onto Marco with an intensity that made the room temperature feel like it had plummeted below freezing.
“Lucia,” Marco recovered quickly, smoothing his lapels with a practiced, oily smile. “You should be upstairs with your son. It’s a tragic night, I know, but we have to look to the future of the family. The transition must be handled swiftly—”
“The transition?” Lucia cut him off, her voice slicing through the silence like a scalpel. She walked slowly toward the center of the room, her footsteps echoing on the marble. “You talk of transitions, Marco, while my son lies dying upstairs from a poison that only a man with the master security codes could have smuggled past the gates.”
Marco’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Are you accusing me, Lucia? Grief has addled your mind. It was the servant’s brat—she slipped something into his food.”
“The child saw you give Adrienne the packet behind the pantry door, Marco,” Lucia said, stopping six feet away from him.
For a split second, the color drained from Marco’s face. Adrienne’s breath hitched. But Marco was a veteran of a hundred turf wars; he didn't survive by panicking. He signaled the two guards standing by the doorway.
“The old woman is hallucinating from shock,” Marco ordered smoothly, his hand drifting inside his suit jacket toward his shoulder holster. “Take her to the west wing suite and lock her in until morning. We’ll handle her tomorrow.”
The guards stepped forward, raising their hands to grab Lucia.
Before their fingers could touch her shawl, the heavy oak doors behind them flew open with a deafening crash.
Rafe, the captain of Gabriel’s personal personal guard—a towering wall of muscle who had been loyal to Gabriel since childhood—stepped into the hall, flanked by twelve elite enforcers with assault rifles raised and leveled directly at Marco’s chest.
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“Step away from Mrs. Moretti, Marco,” Rafe growled, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.
Marco froze, his hand still trapped inside his jacket. His eyes darted from Rafe to the circle of armed men surrounding the room. The trap had sprung, but not the one he had anticipated.
