Chapter 4 - The Serpent at the Table
Word of the lost daughter’s return spread through the Moretti syndicate like wildfire through dry pine, sparking awe among the loyalists and sheer terror among the conspirators. Within forty-eight hours, Eleanor’s life was systematically dismantled and rebuilt. Her worn waitress shoes were replaced by handcrafted Italian heels; her cheap uniform traded for an emerald silk dress that mirrored the green of her eyes.
Yet underneath the luxury, she felt like a lamb being prepped for slaughter.
""Tonight is the Council of Capos,"" Alessandro explained as he walked alongside her down the sweeping marble staircase. He was in a pristine black tuxedo, radiating absolute authority. ""The underbosses are flying in under the pretense of a quarterly tribute. They don't know why they've been summoned. When you walk into that banquet hall, keep your chin high. Show no fear. These men smell weakness like sharks smell blood.""
""I survived twenty years on the streets of New York, Alessandro,"" she replied coldly, meeting his intimidating gaze without flinching. ""Your mobsters in fancy suits don't scare me.""
A ghost of an approving smirk touched the corner of his lips. ""Good. Because the one who tried to kill you as an infant is sitting at that table.""
The double doors swung open, revealing a banquet room bathed in warm chandelier glow. Twelve men of various ages fell instantly silent as Alessandro entered. But when Eleanor stepped into the light beside him, wearing the heirloom willow necklace prominently over her collarbones, the room seemed to lose all air.
At the far end of the long mahogany table, a man in his late fifties froze with his wine glass halfway to his mouth. Uncle Marco Moretti—Isabella’s younger brother, the family’s chief financial officer. The color drained from his weathered face, his skin taking on the sickly grey of wet ash.
""Alessandro,"" Marco stammered, recovering quickly with a hollow smile as he stood. ""What is the meaning of this? Who is this young woman entering a sanctum reserved exclusively for made men?""
Alessandro took his place at the head of the table, placing his heavy gold signet ring flat against the wood. ""Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my cousin. The rightful owner of the northern shipping docks, the southern real estate trusts, and the bloodline of Chiara Moretti.""
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Murmurs erupted. Wine glasses clinked nervously. Marco’s jaw twitched violently, his eyes darting toward Eleanor’s neck where the silver locket rested. ""This is absurd! Chiara died childless in that fire! This girl is a street urchin dressed in silk, trying to bleed our family dry! You cannot let a beggar claim the seat of power!""
""She isn't claiming a seat, Marco,"" Isabella’s sharp voice rang out from the doorway as she entered, her cane thumping against the floor like a gavel. ""She is taking back what you stole.""
