Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The word spread through the New York underworld like wildfire through dry pine.
The Wolf of the East River was summoning the entire family council. No one knew why. The rumors were wild, chaotic, and terrifying: some said Moretti had discovered a federal informant in his inner circle; others whispered that he was preparing to declare open war on the Irish syndicates in Boston.
By six o'clock the following evening, the estate was surrounded by black luxury SUVs, armored sedans, and dozens of heavily armed guards patrolling the perimeter fences.
Inside the main mansion, however, the atmosphere was surreal.
In the grand dining room—where thirty-foot ceilings held gold-leaf chandeliers—three-year-old Emma sat at the head of the long mahogany table. She was wearing a tiny red wool dress that Alessandro had ordered his tailor to deliver personally from Fifth Avenue three hours ago, complete with matching patent-leather shoes.
Beside her sat Alessandro, cutting a piece of grilled chicken into microscopic, child-sized squares on a gold-rimmed porcelain plate.
Sophia was sitting in a wheelchair next to them, still pale, an IV bag hooked to her arm, but her fever had broken thanks to Dr. Mercer’s emergency surgery. She watched Alessandro feed her daughter with an expression of sheer, bewildered shock.
"Mr. Moretti," Sophia said softly, her voice weak but steady. "You don't have to do this. You shouldn't be serving us. We are your domestic staff."
Alessandro didn't look up from his chicken slicing. "You were my mother's friend's daughter, Sophia. And your child scrubbed my shirt until her knuckles bled because she thought she had to protect you. In this house, that makes you family. And no one in my family sits in the servant quarters while I am alive."
Sophia’s eyes welled with tears. "Bernardo will kill you if he knows what’s in that notebook, Mr. Moretti. He has half the dock workers on his payroll. He has men inside this very house."
"I know," Alessandro said calmly, handing a small piece of chicken to Emma, who accepted it with a happy squeak. "I’ve known about his dock workers for five years. What Bernardo doesn't know is that every man he paid off was taking my money too."
The heavy double doors of the dining room opened. Marco walked in, bowing his head slightly.
"Boss. The capos are arriving. Bernardo’s motorcade just pulled into the front gates. He brought twelve shooters with him."
"Did he?" Alessandro smiled—a slow, terrifying curve of his lips that made even Marco take a step back. "Good. Let him think he’s entering a trap he controls."
Alessandro stood up. He walked over to Sophia’s wheelchair, bending down so he was eye-level with her.
"Marco is going to take you and Emma down to the sub-basement vault," Alessandro told her. "It’s reinforced with six inches of solid titanium. Air filtration, water, food for a month. No sound gets in; no sound gets out. You stay there until I come unlock the door myself."
Sophia reached out, grabbing his forearm. Her eyes were wide with desperate concern. "Alessandro... please be careful. He is a demon."
"He was a demon when I was eleven, Sophia," Alessandro said, standing tall, his eyes cold as glacial ice. "Tonight, he’s just a man who lived twenty-seven years too long."
Emma reached out from her high chair, grabbing Alessandro’s pinky finger with her tiny hand. "Big man go fight bad guys?"
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Alessandro looked down at her. The cold armor around his heart cracked just enough for a genuine, radiant smile to show. He bent down and kissed the top of her dark, curly head.
"No, sweetheart," he whispered gently. "Big man is going to clean the house."
