Chapter 8 - The Council of Vipers
Marco Moretti.
Vincent’s uncle. The last surviving brother of the old Don, and the man who had controlled the South Side ports since before Vincent was born.
The name hung in the sterile air of the parlor like a toxic cloud. I felt my stomach plummet. Five years ago, Marco was the one who had always smiled at me with dead, calculating eyes. He was the one who whispered to Vincent’s father that I was an outsider, a common girl from the suburbs who had no place in a bloodline built on iron and gunpowder.
“Where is he?” Vincent asked. His voice was deceptively calm, the kind of quiet that precedes an earthquake.
“He’s in the library,” Sal replied, his hand resting on the butt of his sidearm. “He arrived twenty minutes ago. Julian Rossi is with him. They’re drinking scotch, waiting for the council meeting you called.”
“Did he bring his crew?”
“Four men at the front gate. My boys took their weapons at the door under the house protocol.”
Vincent turned to me. His expression softened by a fraction of an inch as he looked down at Lily. The transfusion had started; dark red blood was slowly trickling through clear plastic tubing into her small arm. Her breathing had evened out, though her skin remained translucent.
“Stay with her,” Vincent said softly. “Lock this door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except Evans or Sal. If anyone else touches that handle, use this.”
He pulled a compact Glock 19 from his waistband, checked the chamber with a smooth slide rack, and placed it on the side table next to me.
“Vincent, no,” I whispered, looking at the cold metal. “I don’t want guns near her.”
“You are a Moretti now, Claire,” he said coldly, turning toward the door. “Whether you like it or not, survival is the only law in this room.”
He swept out of the parlor, Sal following like a shadow.
I locked the heavy oak door and slid the brass deadbolt into place. My hands were shaking. I sat on the edge of the bed, gripping Lily’s small, cool hand in mine.
Across the room, mounted on the wall near the medicine cabinet, was an old surveillance monitor connected to the estate’s internal security feed. I pressed the channel button. The screen flickered to life, showing the grand library on the second floor.
The room was paneled in dark walnut, lined with thousands of leather-bound books. Sitting by the marble fireplace was Marco Moretti—a heavyset man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair, wearing a camel-hair coat. Across from him sat Julian Rossi, the head of logistics, nervously swirling a glass of amber liquor.
The double doors of the library banged open.
Vincent walked in. He hadn't bothered to put on a shirt. He stood there bare-chested, the white cotton bandage still taped to his arm, radiating raw violence.
Marco didn’t stand up. He smiled warmly, raising his crystal tumbler. “Vincent. We heard rumors of chaos in the Loop. We came as soon as we could. What’s going on?”
Vincent walked slowly across the Persian rug until he was towering over Marco’s leather armchair.
“You know what’s going on, Uncle,” Vincent said smoothly.
Julian Rossi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting toward the closed doors where Sal stood with his arms crossed. “Boss, if the Russians are moving on our territory, we need to mobilize the crews on the docks. Marco and I were just discussing—”
“Shut up, Julian,” Vincent said without looking at him. His eyes remained locked on Marco. “Did you enjoy your phone call with Nikolai Tarasov this morning?”
Marco’s smile didn’t falter, but his fingers tightened around the heavy glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken to a Tarasov since the sit-down in September.”
“Funny,” Vincent murmured, leaning down until his face was inches from his uncle’s. “Because an hour ago, I had one of Nikolai’s shooters hanging by his ankles in the Drake alley. Before he died, he gave up the encrypted frequency used to sell out my convoy. That frequency was bought with your offshore account in Grand Cayman, Marco.”
Marco set his glass down on the mahogany table with a slow, deliberate click. The jovial uncle persona vanished instantly, replaced by the bitter, spiteful sneer of a man who believed he held the winning cards.
“And what if it was?” Marco snarled, looking up at his nephew with pure venom. “You broke the rules first, Vincent! Five years ago, your father died, and the commission gave you the seat on one condition: you produce a legitimate heir to solidify our alliance with the Valenti family, or the seat passes to me!”
On the small monitor in the parlor, I held my breath, my knuckles turning white.
“Instead, you spent five years chasing a ghost,” Marco spat, gesturing wildly. “You turned down marriages, you stalled business, and now you bring a gutter whore and her bastard back into this house, pretending she carries Moretti blood!”
Vincent didn’t shout. He didn’t draw his weapon.
May you like
He simply reached down, grabbed Marco by the throat with one massive hand, and hoisted the two-hundred-pound man clean out of the armchair, pinning him against the carved mantelpiece. Marco gasped for air, his legs kicking out frantically, his expensive drink shattering on the hearth.
“She is not a bastard,” Vincent whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal certainty. “She is my daughter. And she is the only thing standing between you and the grave.”
