Chapter 5 - THE SNAKE AT THE TABLE
The Rossi family's private warehouse at Pier 42 smelled of salt water, diesel exhaust, and rusty iron.
Outside, seagulls circled under a overcast winter sky. Inside, four heavy leather chairs were arranged around a solid mahogany table placed directly in the center of the vast, empty concrete floor. Surrounding the perimeter were ten of my best soldiers, dressed in dark overcoats, their submachine guns held at low-ready positions.
At 10:00 AM sharp, the side door opened.
Julian Mercer walked in first. He was forty-five years old, impeccably dressed in a bespoke grey three-piece suit, carrying his trademark leather briefcase. Behind him walked my two senior capos: Paulie 'The Wall' Vanci, a massive former enforcer with a scarred face, and Sal Russo, who managed our gambling operations in Atlantic City.
"Matteo!" Julian called out, smiling broadly as he approached the table. "What’s going on? Marco said you found something about the old Moretti crew? I thought we wiped those dogs out two years ago!"
I sat at the head of the table, slowly turning a heavy crystal glass of scotch in my hand. I didn't smile. I didn't stand up.
"Sit down, brothers," I said softly.
Julian’s smile faltered slightly at my tone, but he quickly recovered, sliding into the leather chair directly to my right. Paulie and Sal took their seats across from him.
"You look tired, Matteo," Julian said smoothly, opening his leather briefcase and setting a fresh tin of boutique tea on the table. "I brought Isabella’s weekly chamomile tea blend. The apothecary said this batch has extra lavender to help her sleep."
I looked at the silver tin sitting on the polished mahogany table between us. My jaw tightened so hard I felt a molar pop.
"Thank you, Julian," I said, my voice eerily calm. "You've been very attentive to my daughter's health these past two years. Extremely attentive."
"She’s my goddaughter, Matteo," Julian replied, placing a hand over his heart. "I love her like my own blood. I’d do anything for that little girl."
"Would you?" I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. "Then you'll be happy to know... Isabella moved her legs this morning."
Silence descended upon the warehouse like a falling anvil.
Sal gasped, a genuine grin breaking across his weathered face. "Holy shit! Really, Boss? That's a miracle! The doctors said—"
"The doctors were wrong," I interrupted, keeping my eyes locked dead on Julian.
Julian’s face didn't break, but I saw it—the micro-expression that only a killer notices. His left eyelid twitched once. His right hand, resting on his briefcase, tightened until his knuckles turned pale white.
"That... that is incredible news, Matteo," Julian stammered, his voice half an octave higher than normal. "A miracle! What... what caused it?"
"A maid’s daughter," I replied softly. "And an old herbal recipe that draws neurotoxins out of the human body."
Julian froze.
"Neurotoxins?" Paulie frowned, looking between me and Julian. "What the hell are you talking about, Don Matteo? Was the kid sick?"
"Isabella wasn't paralyzed by the shock of the car crash, Paulie," I said, picking up the silver pomegranate charm from my pocket and setting it right beside the tin of tea. "She was being poisoned. Just like my wife Elena was being poisoned before her car was forced off the road."
Julian stared at the silver pomegranate charm. The color vanished from his cheeks as if someone had opened a valve in his neck.
"Where... where did you get that?" Julian whispered, his hand instinctively creeping toward his inner jacket pocket.
Before his fingers could touch his shoulder holster, the loud CLACK-CLACK of ten submachine gun bolts being pulled back echoed through the warehouse.
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Four guards instantly stepped behind Julian's chair, pressing the cold steel barrels of their weapons directly against the back of his neck.
"Don't move, Julian," I said, setting my glass down. "We have a lot to talk about."
