Chapter 5 - THE RECEPTION AT THE PLAZA
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was bathed in the amber glow of crystal chandeliers.
Long mahogany tables were draped in white linen, surrounded by twenty-two men whose names commanded terror across the Eastern Seaboard. They were capos, underbosses, and syndicate heads—men who wore expensive Italian wool and carried concealed Walther PPKs, men who had survived gang wars, federal indictments, and turf battles that left streets stained with crimson.
At the head of the long table sat Vincent Moretti.
He wore a custom white dinner jacket, a silver silk tie, and a triumphant, blinding smile that stretched from ear to ear. He held a glass of crystal champagne in his right hand, swirling the bubbles with effortless arrogance.
“Gentlemen,” Vincent announced, his voice carrying clearly across the silent, tense room. “We all know why we are here. My cousin, Alejandro, has served our family well for many years. But nature is a harsh master. His recent... medical collapse has left him broken, weak, and incapable of leading the Moretti syndicate into the modern era.”
A murmur rippled through the table. Some capos nodded in agreement; others stared down at their plates, knowing the danger of moving against Alejandro without absolute proof of his demise.
“The doctors tell me his lungs are scarred beyond repair,” Vincent continued, stepping away from his seat and pacing slowly behind the chairs. “He cannot speak above a whisper. He cannot walk across a room without gasping for air. For the stability of our families, for the protection of our docks, our unions, and our cash flows, we must invoke the Regency Clause. Effective immediately, I assume full operational control of the Moretti empire.”
Vincent raised his champagne glass high.
“To the future of the family.”
“I wouldn't drink that if I were you, Vincent,” a voice echoed from the grand double doors at the back of the ballroom.
The temperature in the room plummeted fifty degrees in a fraction of a second.
Every head snapped toward the entrance.
The massive double doors swung open, pushed back by Bruno and four heavily armed guards in tactical black suits.
And right down the center aisle walked Alejandro Moretti.
He didn't lean on a cane. He didn't gasp for air. His shoulders were squared, his posture commanding, his dark eyes locked onto his cousin with the terrifying stillness of an apex predator walking into a pen of sheep. He wore a crisp black tuxedo, his stride steady, powerful, and completely unyielding.
Vincent’s glass slipped from his fingers.
It hit the marble floor with a sharp, echoing crash, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces as champagne soaked into the stone.
“A-Alejandro?” Vincent stammered, his face turning the color of curdled milk. He took three frantic steps backward until the edge of his chair pressed against the back of his knees. “You... you were supposed to be—the doctors said—”
“The doctors work for me, cousin,” Alejandro’s voice cut through the cavernous room like a butcher’s cleaver.
He walked all the way to the head of the table, stopping just three feet from Vincent, towering over him.
“You wanted my empire, Vincent?” Alejandro asked softly, leaning in close so only the capos in the front rows could hear. “You wanted my seat? You even tried to save me the trouble of a long illness by seasoning my Barolo with a little touch of aconitine.”
A collective gasp rippled through the twenty-two syndicate bosses. Poison. In the code of the underworld, poisoning a family member was the ultimate, unforgivable taboo—a coward’s execution.
“That’s a lie!” Vincent shrieked, panic cracking his voice into a high, hysterical pitch. “He’s delusional! He’s trying to hold onto power by framing me!”
“Framing you?” Alejandro raised his right hand and snapped his fingers twice.
From the side gallery, a technician stepped up to a massive digital projector screen that dropped down over the stage behind the head table.
The screen flickered to life.
The grainy, black-and-white image of the hidden analog camera footage filled the room. Every capo watched in stunned silence as the timestamp clicked to 4:12 PM. They watched Vincent Moretti walk into the private study, pull the glass vial from his vest pocket, and tip four dark drops of poison directly into the open decanter of Barolo.
The audio kicked in—the faint, clear sound of Vincent’s self-satisfied chuckle as he recorked the vial and strolled out the door.
The ballroom was so quiet you could hear the hum of the projector fan forty feet away.
Vincent stood frozen, his eyes wide with absolute, primal terror, staring up at his own betrayal projected in high-contrast monochrome for every boss in New York to witness.
“Any questions, gentlemen?” Alejandro asked, turning slowly to face the table of capos.
Not a single man moved. Not a single man spoke.
Old Don Salvatore, the patriarch of the Brooklyn docks who had known Alejandro’s father, slowly shook his head. He looked at Vincent with undisguised disgust, spat a single glob of saliva onto the marble floor, and looked back at Alejandro.
“The traitor belongs to the family, Alejandro,” Salvatore rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. “Do what must be done.”
Before Vincent could scream, before he could reach for the pistol hidden in his waistband, Bruno’s massive hands clamped down on his shoulders like iron vices. A second later, a heavy canvas hood was dropped over Vincent’s head, cutting off his frantic, muffled shrieks as Bruno and the guards dragged him backward out of the ballroom, his polished Italian shoes scraping uselessly across the marble floor.
The heavy double doors slammed shut.
May you like
Alejandro adjusted his cuffs, pulled out a silk handkerchief, wiped his fingers casually, and looked around the silent table of syndicate heads.
“Now,” Alejandro said smoothly, taking the seat at the head of the table. “Let’s resume our meeting.”
