Chapter 6 - The Feast of Vultures
Midnight struck in the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate.
The room was packed. Over sixty men—capos, regional bosses, corrupt judges, and syndicate elders—sat around the massive mahogany conference table. The atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke and nervous tension. Word had leaked that Gabriel Moretti was incapacitated, and the vultures had gathered to carve up the carcass before the body was even cold.
At the head of the table sat Marco Bellini, flanked by Adrienne Vale and two heavily armed guards. Before them lay the thick leather portfolios containing the permanent transfer of the Moretti syndicate assets to the Vale-Bellini coalition.
“Gentlemen,” Marco began, his voice smooth, resonant, and dripping with false sorrow. “We all mourn the tragic illness that has stricken our beloved boss, Gabriel Moretti, tonight. But business waits for no man. The city cannot remain without a firm hand at the helm. I propose we sign the consolidation charter immediately to ensure stability across our territories.”
Don Moretti’s older cousin, an aging capo named Salvatore, leaned forward across the table, narrowing his eyes at Marco. “The boss is barely cold in his bed upstairs, Marco. You’re rushing this. Where is Lucia? Why isn't she here?”
“Lucia is distraught, resting in her private chambers under medical care,” Adrienne chimed in, her voice sweet, playing the grieving, dutiful fiancée to perfection. “She agrees that swift action is necessary to prevent a turf war with the western cartels.”
“She agrees?” a cold, sharp voice echoed from the heavy mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom.
The entire room went dead silent. Every head snapped toward the entrance.
The double doors swung open wide.
Framed in the doorway stood Lucia Moretti, her posture ramrod straight, dressed in deepest mourning black. Behind her stood Rafe and six elite enforcers holding automatic weapons.
But it wasn't Lucia that made Marco’s face turn the color of chalk and Adrienne’s pen slip from her fingers, clattering against the table.
Walking right behind Lucia, leaning slightly on Rafe’s shoulder for balance, was Gabriel Moretti.
His face was pale, his jawline still marked by the dried trace of blood from earlier in the evening, but his eyes—those fierce, dark, merciless eyes—were wide open, burning with a lethal fury that could freeze the blood in a man's veins.
The sixty syndicate bosses stood up simultaneously, their chairs scraping against the floor in a deafening roar of shock. Several men backed away from the table as if they were looking at a ghost returned from the grave.
“M-Mr. Moretti...?” Marco stammered, his polished composure shattering completely. He gripped the edge of the mahogany table so hard his knuckles turned white. “You... you were poisoned... the doctor said—”
“The doctor said the neurotoxin was lethal, Marco,” Gabriel’s voice rang out—low, gravelly, but carrying the unmistakable, crushing weight of absolute authority. He walked slowly down the center aisle, his heavy footsteps echoing across the marble floor like the tolling of a doom bell. “She didn't say it was fast enough to stop me from waking up.”
Marco’s eyes darted wildly toward his guards, but Rafe’s men had already raised their weapons, locking laser sights onto the chests of every loyalist in the room.
Gabriel reached the head of the table. He stood towering over Marco, looking down at the traitor with a look so full of contempt that Marco shrank back into his chair.
“You wanted a transition of power, Marco?” Gabriel asked softly, leaning down until his face was inches from his former consigliere. “You wanted to sign away my empire while my body was still warm?”
“Gabriel, please—it was a misunderstanding—Adrienne made me do it—!” Marco whimpered, all his bravado evaporating into cowardly self-preservation.
Gabriel didn't yell. He didn't strike him. He simply reached out, picked up the transfer folder, and tossed it into the lit fireplace behind them, watching the papers curl, blacken, and turn to ash in seconds.
May you like
Then Gabriel turned his gaze toward Adrienne, who was trembling violently in her ivory silk dress, tears streaming down her painted face.
“The alliance is dissolved,” Gabriel said, his voice flat, final, and absolute. “And the Vale dynasty will find out tomorrow morning what happens when they try to buy a seat at my table with poison.”
