Chapter 3 - The Boardroom ExecutionThe storm over Chicago raged violently at midnight, hammering against the glass walls of the seventy-second floor of the Moretti Tower in downtown Manhattan.
Inside the soundproof executive boardroom, five men sat around a thirty-foot mahogany conference table, sipping twenty-year-old scotch.
At the head of the table sat my uncle, Sal Moretti. Beside him sat Leo and Dominic Valenti—the two men who controlled our trucking logistics and port operations.
“Dante is losing his grip,” Sal scoffed, swirling his glass. “He’s been locked inside his Lake Forest estate for forty-eight hours over that little girl. My sources say he pulled the divorce papers off the table.”
Dominic Valenti leaned forward, his gold teeth glinting in the dim chandelier light. “Then we accelerate the timeline, Sal. If the girl doesn't die from the nightshade tincture soon, we tell Dante that her father’s family violated the peace treaty. We stir the blood debt, get Dante focused on a war in Detroit, and let Julian step in through the back door.”
“Julian is getting impatient in Milwaukee,” Leo added. “He wants his seat back.”
“Julian will wait until I say he can move!” Sal snapped, slamming his glass flat against the mahogany table.
CLICK.
The sound was sharp, small, and distinct—the sound of an executive door lock engaging from the inside.
The five men froze, turning their heads toward the back entrance of the boardroom.
I stepped out from the darkness of the private executive elevator suite. I wasn't wearing my usual tailored suit jacket. I wore a black tactical turtleneck, my sleeves rolled up to my forearms, exposing the dark Latin tattoos winding up my wrists. In my right hand, held casually at my side, was a silenced 9mm automatic.
Behind me stood Marco, locking the primary exit doors with an iron security bar.
Sal’s face went completely white. His scotch glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the Persian rug.
“D-Dante…” Sal stammered, scrambling backward in his leather chair. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you here at this hour?”
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly down the length of the long mahogany table, my heavy leather boots dropping with a rhythmic, terrifying thud against the hardwood floor.
I stopped at the head of the table, looking down at my uncle.
“I was just thinking about my wedding night, Uncle Sal,” I said smoothly, my voice as calm as a frozen lake. “Three years ago. You were the one who gave the toast, weren't you? You held up your glass and said, ‘To blood, loyalty, and eternal peace.’”
Leo Valenti’s hand subtly drifted down toward his shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
THWIP.
A single silenced shot echoed through the room. Leo’s hand froze as a neat, red hole appeared directly between his eyebrows. He collapsed forward onto the table, his forehead hitting the wood with a heavy thud, blood pooling over the financial reports.
Dominic screamed, throwing his hands flat onto the table. “Dante! Wait! Please!”
Sal was trembling so violently his chair rattled against the glass wall behind him. “Dante! He’s your cousin! I’m your father’s brother! You can’t do this!”
I stepped over Leo’s cooling body, pressing the warm barrel of the silenced pistol directly against Sal’s left temple.
“Julian is in Milwaukee,” I murmured into Sal’s ear. “At the industrial rail yard near the river. Isn't he, Sal?”
“Yes! Yes!” Sal sobbed, tears spilling over his wrinkled, aged face. “He’s hiding in the steel fabrication warehouse! He has the original chemical ledger from the chemist in Switzerland! He kept it to blackmail us if we ever crossed him!”
“Thank you for your honesty, Uncle,” I whispered.
THWIP.
I pulled the trigger before the second syllable left my lips.
Sal collapsed sideways off his chair, hitting the floor in a lifeless heap.
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I straightened my posture, pulling a white linen handkerchief from my pocket to wipe a tiny drop of blood off the barrel of my gun, before handing the weapon to Marco.
“Clean this room,” I commanded quietly, stepping toward the private elevator. “And tell the strike team to prep the armored SUVs. We’re driving to Milwaukee.”
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