Chapter 5 - A Trap in the North End
Friday night arrived wrapped in a shroud of freezing rain that turned the narrow brick alleys of Boston’s North End into slick, shimmering mirrors.
A convoy of four armored sedans pulled up outside Il Gabbiano, an old-world Italian restaurant tucked away off Hanover Street. Its front windows were draped in thick burgundy velvet, the neon sign switched off, the street eerie and deserted.
The rear door opened, and Marco stepped out first, his hand inside his coat, sweeping the rooftops. Satisfied, he held the door open for Lorenzo and Nadia.
Nadia stepped out onto the wet asphalt, the freezing wind stinging her cheeks. She wore an elegant, high-necked emerald velvet gown beneath a heavy cashmere coat—chosen by Lorenzo himself. Her hair was pinned in an immaculate updo, exposing the graceful line of her neck. She looked like old Boston royalty, but inside, her pulse was racing at a frantic speed.
Lorenzo offered his arm. He looked lethal in an all-black bespoke suit, his presence dominating the narrow alley.
"Breathe, Nadia," he murmured, his fingers covering hers where they rested against his bicep. "Keep your chin up. Do not look at their weapons. Look only at their eyes."
"I am breathing," she lied, her chest tight.
"You're doing magnificent," he whispered, and for a fleeting second, the terrifying don vanished, replaced by the man who had looked at his lost mother with raw, unguarded devotion on Acorn Street.
They entered through the heavy brass doors.
The restaurant was cleared of patrons. In the center of the main dining room, beneath a tarnished crystal chandelier, sat a long banquet table. Around the perimeter stood eight armed men with hard, weathered faces, their eyes tracking Lorenzo’s every step.
At the head of the table sat Don Sal Moretti. He was in his late fifties, heavy-set, with slicked-back gray hair and a scar running from his ear down to his collar. A cigar burned in a crystal ashtray beside a half-empty bottle of Barolo.
Moretti smiled—a hideous, predatory grin that didn't reach his small, cunning eyes.
"Lorenzo," Moretti rumbled, spreading his arms wide. "You honor an old man by accepting the invitation. And you brought the famous guardian angel."
Lorenzo pulled out a chair for Nadia, waiting until she was seated before taking his place directly across from Moretti. He leaned back, resting his forearms on the table, exuding total nonchalance.
"Let’s skip the theater, Sal," Lorenzo said evenly. "You dragged twelve shooters across state lines and harassed a civilian’s home in Cambridge. What is the proposal?"
Moretti chuckled, blowing a thick plume of gray cigar smoke toward the ceiling. "Straight to business. I like that. The proposal is simple, boy. Your father took the northern distribution routes thirty years ago. He’s dead. Your mother is losing her mind in a cage on Mt. Vernon Street. And you... you’ve gone soft, hiring pretty translators to read poetry to a ghost."
Marco’s hand twitched toward his holster, but Lorenzo lifted two fingers, freezing his lieutenant in place.
"The northern routes are mine," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into arctic silence. "They will remain mine."
"They won't," Moretti sneered, leaning forward, his eyes landing on Nadia with slimy appreciation. "Because if you don't sign over the harbor leases tonight, Miss Carver here won't leave this room alive. And tomorrow, we pay a visit to your mother’s sunroom."
At that exact moment, the faint click of multiple safety catches sounded from the shadows near the kitchen. Moretti’s men drew their firearms simultaneously, aiming straight at Lorenzo and Nadia.
Nadia’s breath caught in her throat. Her instincts screamed at her to duck, to scream, to run. But instead, she remembered Lorenzo’s instruction: Look only at their eyes.
She stared straight into Moretti’s face, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower.
"You made a mistake, Sal," Lorenzo said quietly. He didn't flinch. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't even blink.
"Did I?" Moretti laughed. "Look around, kid. You're outnumbered three to one."
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"I was never talking about the numbers in this room," Lorenzo said.
From the pocket of her coat, Nadia felt a sudden vibration. But before she could process it, the deafening sound of shattering glass tore through the dining room.
