Chapter 3 - The Family Dinner
The penthouse dining room of the Grand Regency Hotel in Manhattan was lit by crystal chandeliers that cast long, golden shadows across a table built for twenty men. Sitting at the head of the table was Marcus Moretti.
He looked immaculate in a tailored grey Brioni suit, sipping a hundred-year-old cognac, surrounded by six of the family’s most powerful capos.
"Julian is losing his edge," Marcus was telling the capos, his voice smooth, dripping with fake concern. "Ever since Mateo died three years ago, my brother has been a ghost. He spends his days drinking in his office, torturing low-level street enforcers like Lorenzo while our drug routes in Queens fall apart. The Moretti family needs a leader who looks toward the future, not a broken man weeping over a grave."
"Julian is still the Boss, Marcus," Capo Santino replied gruffly, cutting his steak. "He built this syndicate with his bare hands. You handle the money, but Julian handles the street. No one moves against Julian without a war."
"A war?" Marcus chuckled softly, taking a sip of his drink. "A war requires two sides, Santino. My brother doesn't have the stomach for blood anymore. He's weak."
The heavy double doors of the penthouse dining room blew inward with a violent crash.
Two of Marcus’s personal bodyguards posted at the door were thrown onto the marble floor, unconscious and bleeding.
I walked through the dust and smoke, flanked by Dominic and four heavily armed Omega enforcers carrying suppressed automatic rifles. I wore a black wool coat, my hands tucked casually into my pockets.
The room went dead silent. The capos instantly stood up, their hands reaching for their shoulder holsters, but Dominic’s men raised their rifles, laser sights painting crimson dots across every capo's chest.
"Sit down," I commanded softly.
The capos slowly lowered themselves back into their chairs. Nobody dared to breathe.
Marcus’s glass paused halfway to his mouth. A flicker of annoyance flashed across his polished face, quickly replaced by his signature, charming smile.
"Julian," Marcus said, leaning back in his leather chair. "You're late for the board meeting. And you brought heavy artillery to a family dinner. Is there a problem?"
I walked slowly down the length of the long table, my heavy leather boots clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. I stopped directly opposite Marcus, leaning my hands on the back of a mahogany chair.
"I found something interesting today, Marcus," I said, my voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an underlying frequency that made the ice in Marcus's glass vibrate.
"Oh?" Marcus raised an eyebrow, trying to play cool. "A new investment opportunity?"
"A birthmark," I replied.
Marcus froze. The subtle color in his cheeks drained by a fraction of a degree. "I don't follow."
"A tiny, crescent-shaped birthmark behind the left ear of an eight-month-old child," I continued, taking a slow step around the table. "A child brought into my house by a woman named Elena."
Marcus’s hand twitched slightly against his glass. "Julian, if you're drinking again—"
"I buried a closed casket three years ago, Marcus," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a whisper that echoed in every corner of the vast room. "You stood beside me at St. Jude's. You held my hand while they lowered that mahogany box into the dirt. You told me my son was dead."
The capos looked back and forth between us, sensing the sudden, lethal drop in atmospheric pressure.
"Julian, you're not making sense—" Marcus started, rising from his chair.
I pulled my Kimber .45 from beneath my coat in a blur of motion and slammed the heavy steel barrel directly into the center of Marcus’s face.
CRACK!
Marcus’s nose shattered. He screamed, falling backward over his chair, crashing onto the floor, blood spraying across his pristine white shirt.
"Julian! What the hell are you doing?!" Capo Santino yelled, half-rising.
"STAY SEATED!" Dominic barked, pressing his rifle barrel into Santino's neck.
I stepped over the overturned chair, straddling Marcus’s chest, pinning his arms down with my knees. I shoved the hot steel barrel of my pistol deep into his broken mouth, locking his jaw open.
"Elena told me everything, brother," I snarled, tears of pure rage burning my eyes. "She told me about the clinic in Colombia. She told me about Sofia. She told me about the twins."
Marcus’s eyes bulged in absolute, pure terror. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by the panicked whimpers of a caught rat.
"Where is Mateo?" I whispered, leaning down until my face was inches from his bloody nose. "Where is my other son?"
Marcus choked on his own blood, tears streaming down his face as he shook his head frantically against the barrel of my gun.
"I... I can't..." Marcus gagged out around the steel. "If I tell you... he'll kill me..."
I pulled the gun out of his mouth just enough for him to speak, slamming the butt of the pistol into his collarbone. "Who will kill you?!"
"The cartel!" Marcus wept, completely broken. "The Cali syndicate! I owed them eighty million dollars in lost shipments three years ago! I traded Sofia and the boys to them as collateral! They're holding Mateo in a fortified compound in the mountains outside Medellin!"
The entire dining room gasped. Selling his own blood—his own family—to a foreign cartel to cover his gambling debts.
I stood up slowly, looking down at my younger brother with a disgust so profound it transcended hatred.
"You aren't a Moretti," I said quietly. "You're a disease."
I turned to Capo Santino. "Santino."
"Yes, Boss?" Santino answered, his voice trembling with newfound respect and terror for the man he had called weak ten minutes earlier.
"Marcus is no longer part of this family," I declared. "Strip him of his assets, lock him in the estate dungeons, and keep him alive on IV fluids until I return from Colombia. If he dies before I get my son back, I will hold you personally responsible."
"Understood, Boss," Santino nodded grimly.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the penthouse, my coat billowing behind me.
"Dominic!" I called out as we entered the elevator.
May you like
"Yes, Boss?"
"Tell the pilot to fire up the engines," I said, pulling a fresh magazine from my pocket and slapping it into my pistol with a sharp, metallic CLACK. "We're going to war with Medellin."
