Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Gala
Sunday evening arrived under a blanket of heavy, dark fog rolling off the East River.
The grand dining hall of the Moretti estate was lit by dozens of crystal chandeliers, casting a golden glow over a thirty-foot oak table laid with silver, fine china, and expensive wine.
Thirty of the most powerful syndicate leaders on the East Coast sat around the table, dressed in formal tuxedos. At the far end sat Uncle Dominic Moretti—a stern, sixty-five-year-old man with silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and a cold smile that had ordered dozens of hitmen over three decades.
Aleandro sat at the head of the table, wearing a dark tuxedo, a glass of sparkling water in his hand.
“Gentlemen,” Dominic spoke up, raising his wine glass with an air of supreme confidence. “We gather tonight under somber circumstances. My nephew, Aleandro, has suffered a grave attack on his life. Though he survived, the doctors inform us his lungs are permanently damaged. He can no longer lead the family with the strength required in these dangerous times.”
A chorus of sympathetic mutters swept through the assembled bosses.
“Therefore,” Dominic continued, standing up and buttoning his jacket, “as the senior member of the Commission, I am stepping forward to assume leadership of the Moretti Syndicate until a permanent line of succession is established.”
Dominic looked down the table at Aleandro, a triumphant smirk flashing in his eyes. “Do you have any objections, nephew?”
Aleandro set his glass down on the table. The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged room like a gunshot.
“I have only one objection, Uncle,” Aleandro said smoothly.
He stood up, tall and unyielding, resting his hands on the mahogany table.
“A leader must be loyal to his blood,” Aleandro declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. “And you, Dominic, are a parasite.”
The room went dead silent. Several bosses gasped, their hands instinctively moving toward their coats.
Dominic’s face turned bright red. “How dare you! The poison has clearly damaged your mind—”
“Bring him in,” Aleandro commanded quietly.
The double doors of the dining hall slammed open.
Gideon and Marco pushed a wheel-chair into the room. Sitting in the chair, bound with heavy rope, was Julian. Beside him walked Arthur, the old butler, holding a taped audio recording device in his trembling hands.
Dominic’s cold smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a gray, sickly hue.
“Julian?” Dominic stammered, stepping back against his chair.
“Tell them, Julian,” Aleandro ordered.
Julian looked up at the thirty syndicate leaders, his voice cracking with desperate fear. “Uncle Dominic ordered the hit! He paid me three million dollars to cut the crane cable three years ago, and he provided the synthetic toxin to kill Aleandro! He threatened to kill my family if I didn't frame the maid!”
Gideon pressed PLAY on the audio recording device.
Dominic’s own raspy voice filled the grand dining hall, loud and undeniable:
“...Make sure the maid takes the fall, Julian. Her husband’s death makes it believable. Once Aleandro is buried, Chicago takes the piers, and you get your cut...”
The assembled bosses erupted into wild shouts of fury and disgust! Several elder members stood up, pointing fingers at Dominic with open hatred.
“Treason!” one boss shouted. “Against your own blood!”
Dominic panicked, pulling a concealed snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster, pointing it directly at Aleandro’s head!
“I built this family!” Dominic screamed wildly. “You were soft, Aleandro! You cared about maids and construction workers! You didn't have the stomach to rule!”
Before Dominic could press the trigger, a sharp gunshot shattered the air.
BANG!
Dominic gasped, dropping the revolver as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending him crashing backward onto the marble floor!
Standing at the side entrance of the dining hall was Sophia Carter.
She held Aleandro’s silver 9mm handgun in both hands, her posture rock-steady, smoke curling gently from the barrel. She didn't look like a scared maid anymore. She looked like a mother who had fought her way out of hell to protect her child.
Aleandro walked calmly down the length of the table, stepping over the shattered wine glasses, until he stood over his bleeding uncle.
He bent down, picked up Dominic’s fallen revolver, and dropped it into his tuxedo pocket.
“Take him to the federal authorities,” Aleandro ordered his men. “Give them the recordings, the bank records, and the confession. Let him spend the rest of his miserable life in a maximum-security cell thinking about the family he betrayed.”
The guards dragged the screaming, bleeding old man out of the hall, leaving the room in stunned, awe-struck silence.
Aleandro turned to the thirty syndicate leaders, his eyes burning with absolute authority.
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“This family is under new rules,” Aleandro announced. “No drugs through the piers. No extortion of working families. And if any man here ever threatens an innocent child again... I will personally see to it that he disappears from the face of the earth.”
The bosses stood up, one by one, bowing their heads in deep, terrifying respect to the undisputed King of New York.
