Chapter 5 - The Dinner of Wolves and Lies
The grand dining hall of the Moretti estate looked like something out of a historical museum.
A thirty-foot mahogany table sat beneath massive crystal chandeliers,
surrounded by twelve high-backed leather chairs.
At the head of the table sat Carmine Moretti,
wearing a tailored charcoal suit,
pouring expensive Scotch into crystal glasses for six senior council bosses of the syndicate.
I wore a crisp black waitress apron over a sleek white button-down shirt and black trousers,
holding a silver tray loaded with appetizers and drinks.
My hands were perfectly steady as I drifted between the guards standing along the wood-paneled walls.
"Gentlemen,"
Carmine announced,
standing up and raising his glass,
his voice filled with rehearsed sadness.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice."
"As you know,"
"my poor nephew Gabriel has suffered greatly since the tragic sniper attack six months ago."
"His physical condition has deteriorated rapidly."
"And recently,"
"his mental stability has succumbed to the trauma."
The senior bosses murmured quietly among themselves,
nodding with grim expressions.
"He is no longer capable of managing our shipping networks,"
Carmine continued,
placing a thick stack of medical folders onto the center of the table.
"These are certified reports from his primary physician."
"They clearly state that Gabriel is suffering from progressive brain damage caused by nerve failure medication."
"It pains my heart to say this,"
"but for the survival of the Moretti family,"
"I must officially ask the council to vote me in as the absolute head of the empire."
"Isn't that a bit premature,
Uncle?"
a cold,
commanding voice echoed from the heavy double doors at the end of the hall.
The room went dead silent.
The double doors swung open wide.
Gabriel Moretti rolled slowly into the dining hall in his motorized wheelchair.
He wore an immaculate double-breasted black tuxedo,
his dark hair perfectly styled,
his eyes burning with a lethal, predatory fire that made two of the older bosses immediately sit up straight.
Behind him walked Vincent,
his hands folded neatly in front of his jacket.
Carmine’s face turned gray.
His glass wobbled in his hand,
the Scotch sloshing over the crystal rim.
"Gabriel!"
Carmine gasped,
trying to force a warm smile onto his terrified face.
"You... you should be resting in bed!"
"You aren't well enough to be down here!"
"I've never felt better in my life,
Carmine,"
Gabriel said smoothly,
stopping his wheelchair right opposite his uncle at the table.
"In fact,"
"since I stopped taking the altered sedatives your personal doctor slipped into my pharmacy orders,"
"my head has never been clearer."
The council bosses exchanged sharp,
dangerous glances.
"What nonsense are you talking about?"
Carmine barked,
sweat instantly breaking out across his forehead.
"He's delusional!"
"The brain damage is making him paranoid!"
"Guards,"
"escort my nephew back to his room!"
"Nobody moves,"
Gabriel growled,
his voice dropping to a terrifying register that froze every armed guard in the room in place.
"Maya,"
Gabriel said softly,
never breaking eye contact with his uncle.
"Serve the gentlemen their drinks."
"And show them the dessert menu."
I stepped forward gracefully,
placing my silver tray onto the serving side table.
Instead of pulling out wine glasses,
I pulled a compact wireless projector from my apron pocket,
turned it on,
and aimed its bright lens at the massive white wall directly behind Carmine’s head.
A high-definition video feed instantly lit up the room.
The video displayed Carmine standing in the west tower garden on Tuesday night,
holding a long-range tactical sniper rifle,
speaking into a burner phone.
The audio echoed through the silent dining room with terrifying clarity:
"The shot is lined up."
"Once the nurse leaves the study,"
"I'll put a bullet through his head and blame the Brooklyn crew."
"Make sure the offshore transfer of twelve million dollars is finalized before morning."
Carmine dropped his glass.
The crystal shattered across the marble floor,
sprinkling Scotch over his expensive shoes.
The senior council bosses stood up simultaneously,
their hands reaching inside their tailored jackets as they stared at the wall in absolute fury.
"Carmine,"
the oldest council boss said,
his voice dripping with pure ice.
"You brought a sniper onto family ground?"
"You stole from the syndicate logistics fund?"
"It's a lie!"
Carmine screamed,
stumbling backward into his chair,
his face contorted in panic.
"It's a fake video!"
"The nurse made it!"
"She's framing me!"
Gabriel leaned forward in his wheelchair,
a slow,
victorious smile spreading across his face as he looked at his uncle's ruined face.
"My nurse doesn't frame people,
Carmine,"
Gabriel whispered,
his dark eyes gleaming with absolute malice.
"She just documents garbage so I know where to throw it out."
"Vincent,"
May you like
Gabriel commanded softly.
"Take my uncle down to the rose garden."
