Chapter 7 - The Trap is Set
News of the summit spread through the criminal underworld like a shockwave. A meeting of that magnitude—bringing the heads of both Chicago and New York together—hadn't occurred in nearly a decade.
By six o'clock the following evening, the private dining room at Bellacorte was locked down under military-grade security. Armed sentries were stationed at every street corner, on the rooftops overlooking the river, and inside the service corridors.
When Dante and I arrived, the atmosphere was electric with tension. Dante looked magnificent in a bespoke black three-piece suit, exuding the cold, regal authority of an unchallenged king. I wore a striking crimson silk gown that hugged my frame, with my hair swept into an elegant updo, exposing the diamond necklace Dante had fastened around my throat two nights ago.
This time, nobody looked at me as an accessory.
As we walked through the double doors, the room fell dead silent. Vittorio Bellini was already seated at the head of the long table, looking exhausted. The lines around his eyes were deeper, his posture rigid. Lorenzo sat beside him, his left cheek covered with a large medical bandage and his eyes burning with silent, venomous hatred toward Dante.
Ten other senior capos from both families occupied the remaining seats, their faces grim and guarded.
"Dante," Vittorio said, his voice flat as he gestured toward the empty chairs opposite him. "You called this meeting under the truce flag. I assume you want to settle the matter of my son's broken jaw."
"Your son broke the rules of hospitality by entering my private home, Vittorio," Dante replied calmly, pulling out my chair for me before taking his own seat. "He was lucky to leave on his feet. But we didn't call this summit to discuss your son’s bad manners."
"Then why are we here?" Lorenzo spat, leaning forward. "You killed the trade agreement! You have no leverage left in the east!"
"Quiet, Lorenzo," Vittorio snapped, waving his hand dismissively at his son. Then he turned back to Dante, his eyes narrowing. "I received a disturbing notification from my bankers in Zurich this afternoon. My maritime shipping note was sold to a private American trust. Did you have something to do with this, Moretti?"
Dante leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his hands over his knee. A faint, knowing smile played on his lips.
"I don't handle international maritime finance, Vittorio," Dante said smoothly, gesturing toward me with an open palm. "My wife does."
Vittorio’s gaze snapped toward me, his brow furrowing into deep, incredulous folds. "What is he talking about?"
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I reached into my leather portfolio and pulled out a single sheet of embossed parchment bearing the official seal of Banque de Berne and the notarized stamp of the Zurich commercial registry. I slid it across the polished table until it came to rest directly in front of Vittorio’s hands.
"Read paragraph four, Don Vittorio," I said, speaking in flawless, ice-cold Italian. "As of two-fifteen this afternoon, Vance Capital Trust has assumed total ownership of your eighty-million-dollar collateralized note. Because your company missed the second-quarter payment, the entire principal balance is now callable upon immediate demand."
