Chapter 6 - The Family Council
Word travels fast in Boston, but news of the Moretti-Barrett wedding cancellation traveled at the speed of light. By 9:00 PM, my phone hadn't stopped buzzing with frantic messages from my uncles, demanding an emergency meeting at the family’s Back Bay brownstone.
Instead of hiding or dodging them, I walked right through the heavy oak doors of the ancestral study with Elena and the four boys trailing right behind me.
The smoke-filled room fell dead silent as we entered. My three uncles—Vincenzo, Salvatore, and Luca—were sitting around the mahogany conference table, cigars in hand, looking like a tribunal of grim judges.
"Dominic," Uncle Vincenzo barked, slamming his fist onto the wood. "Have you completely lost your mind? Sloane Barrett just called your cousin screaming that you humiliated her in front of half the city! The docks deal is hanging by a thread!"
"Let it hang," I said calmly, taking a seat at the head of the table while Elena stood beside me, exuding effortless grace. The four boys lined up neatly behind my chair, mirroring my posture with their hands clasped behind their backs.
Salvatore narrowed his eyes, staring past me at the four miniature Morettis. "And who in God's name are these kids?"
"Allow me to introduce you," I said, a dangerous, confident smile spreading across my face. "These are your four new heirs. Meet Leo, Dante, Marco, and Mateo Moretti."
The three uncles sat frozen, their cigars hovering halfway to their mouths. Vincenzo choked on his smoke, coughing violently as he stared from the boys' identical faces to mine, and finally to Elena.
"Heirs?" Luca spluttered, his face turning bright red. "Dominic, you can't just spawn a whole squad of heirs out of thin air! Who is their mother?"
"Elena Vance," I said, pulling Elena closer by the waist so the heavy gold signet ring caught the light of the desk lamp. "The only woman I've ever answered to. And she is now officially Elena Moretti."
Silence descended on the room. My uncles glared at me, sizing up the situation, looking for a way to salvage their precious political leverage. But they knew better than to argue when the Moretti stubbornness was on full display—especially multiplied by four.
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"You're a reckless idiot, nephew," Vincenzo muttered finally, though a begrudging smirk crept onto his weathered face as he looked down at little Dante, who was staring back at him with the exact same piercing glare. "God help Boston."
"God help anyone who gets in our way," I replied.
