Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Verdict
By nine o'clock that evening, the rain had returned, drumming a relentless, metallic rhythm against the high arched windows of the east wing boardroom.
Four men sat around a heavy mahogany table lit by dark green banker's lamps.
At the head of the table sat Silvio Moretti—a sixty-year-old mafia boss with silver hair, teeth stained by expensive cigars, and a suit that cost more than an average family’s annual mortgage. To his left sat his son, Matteo—a sneering twenty-five-year-old with greasy hair and a diamond pinky ring that caught the lamplight.
To Lorenzo’s right sat his legal counsel, a pale man named Valenti, who kept nervously adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles.
Lorenzo sat at the foot of the table, his fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of neat Scotch. He had changed out of his mud-stained suit into a dark charcoal wool sweater and trousers.
“You walked out of the room three hours ago, Lorenzo,” Silvio Moretti grunted, leaning forward and tapping a thick finger against a legal document sitting between them. “We were halfway through finalizing the territorial distribution for the North Docks. My daughter Isabella is waiting in Milan for the wedding announcement. And you disappear for three hours to wander around your garden?”
“The garden was crowded today,” Lorenzo said flatly. He didn't touch his drink.
Matteo Moretti laughed—a harsh, mocking sound. “Word from the kitchen is you were playing hero for a little maid and her bastard kid. Is that what the head of the Duca family does now? Rescuing house servants while real business sits at the table?”
Lorenzo shifted his eyes slowly to Matteo.
The air in the boardroom instantly dropped five degrees. Valenti stopped breathing altogether.
“Say that again, Matteo,” Lorenzo suggested. His tone was light, almost conversational.
Matteo’s smirk flickered. He looked at his father, seeking support, but Silvio’s eyes had narrowed into dark, dangerous slits as he studied Lorenzo’s face.
“Matteo,” Silvio warned softly. “Shut your mouth.”
“I’m just saying, Father,” Matteo muttered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “We’re discussing a fifty-million-dollar maritime logistics contract, and Lorenzo is wasting time over a stolen clock.”
Lorenzo set his glass down on the mahogany table with a soft, deliberate clink.
“The clock isn't the problem, Matteo,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward into the warm circle of green light. “The problem is that the person who stole it used a master security bypass code that was only issued to three people in this city.”
Silvio paused, his cigar halting inches from his mouth. “What are you talking about?”
“The security feed outside my study didn't undergo maintenance,” Lorenzo explained, pulling a flash drive from his pocket and dropping it onto the table. “My private IT team pulled the secondary backup logs from the server in Frankfurt fifteen minutes ago. The cameras were manually wiped using an encryption key registered to Moretti Enterprises.”
Silvio’s face went completely stone-still.
Matteo’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging into the arms of his leather chair. “That’s bullshit! Someone copied our key—”
“The key was used from an IP address traced directly to your penthouse on 5th Avenue at 1:45 PM today,” Lorenzo continued, his voice cold and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Ranata didn't steal the Florence clock to frame a maid. She stole it because inside the lapis lazuli base of that clock was a micro-ledger containing thirty years of offshore tax accounts belonging to my late father.”
Lorenzo stood up. He towered over the table, his shoulders blocking out the light from the chandelier behind him.
“You didn't come here today to arrange a marriage between your daughter and me, Silvio,” Lorenzo said softly. “You sent your son to plant a rat in my house, steal my father’s ledger, and frame an innocent mother so there would be enough domestic chaos to cover the theft.”
Silvio slowly set his cigar down in a crystal ashtray. “Lorenzo... you are making a very dangerous accusation without proof—”
“The proof is upstairs,” Lorenzo replied. “Ranata is currently sitting in my cellar talking to Marco. She gave up Matteo’s name after three minutes.”
Matteo panicked. He reached frantically toward the inside pocket of his tailored jacket—
BANG.
Lorenzo’s hand moved with blind speed. Before Matteo’s fingers could clear his lapel, Lorenzo had seized a heavy bronze paperweight from the desk and slammed it down directly onto Matteo’s right hand, crushing his fingers against the mahogany table.
Matteo shrieked in agony, dropping to his knees as blood pooled across the legal documents.
Silvio reached for his own sidearm, but the boardroom doors flew open. Marco stepped into the room, holding an automatic shotgun leveled directly at Silvio’s chest.
May you like
Lorenzo didn't even look down at the screaming young man kneeling at his feet. He picked up his Scotch glass, finished the last drop, and looked Silvio dead in the eye.
“The marriage is off,” Lorenzo declared quietly. “The North Docks belong to the Duca family permanently. And if I see your son on this side of the river after midnight... I will feed him to Pino piece by piece.”
