Chapter 2 - The Gathering Wolves
The long black limousines began rolling up the serpentine driveway of the Valdora estate like a funeral procession of apex predators.
Rain had started to mist across the gray stone facade, slicking the marble steps and deepening the shadows between the carved Roman pillars. Every entrance was manned by guards in tailored three-piece suits with automatic pistols tucked beneath their armpits.
In the east wing library, Remo Calder paced behind Gaspar Valdora’s mahogany desk, his knuckles white around a glass of neat bourbon. He looked exhausted. His phone was buzzing constantly with reports from spotters stationed around the perimeter.
""Sal Moretti brought four cars,"" Remo growled, staring out through the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows. ""Donovan brought his hit team from Chicago. Even that rat Angelo Rossi showed up. They smell blood in the water, Gaspar. They know about the hospital rumors.""
Across the room, sitting before a three-way antique mirror, Gaspar Valdora didn't flinch.
He had adjusted his posture into an iron monument of authority. His bespoke charcoal wool suit was immaculate. His gold cufflinks gleamed under the warm chandelier light. But underneath the pristine white collar of his shirt, a faint bead of cold sweat formed against his jawline. His color had returned, but his eyes were rimmed with a dull, dangerous fatigue.
""Let them bring an army,"" Gaspar said, his baritone voice vibrating with the cold authority that had kept the Northeast under his thumb for fifteen years. ""Moretti is a hyena. He only bites when the prey stops breathing. As long as I am sitting upright at the head of that table, none of them will dare draw a weapon.""
Dr. Evan Lindell stood nearby, packing away his portable EKG machine with nervous, trembling hands. ""Gaspar, you are being stubborn to the point of insanity. Your cardiac conduction system is unstable. If your heart rate drops like that while you’re under acute psychological stress, you could suffer ventricular standstill. You could die right there on the Persian rug!""
""I would rather die on that rug than surrender my territory to Sal Moretti,"" Gaspar snapped, his dark eyes flashing with lethal fury. He reached up with his left hand, tugging irritably at the crisp band of his collar.
A sharp, momentary wince crossed his rugged features.
""What is it?"" Remo demanded immediately, his hand drifting instinctively toward his holster.
""Nothing,"" Gaspar grumbled, turning his neck to loosen the stiff fabric. ""The air in this house is suffocating. And this collar feels like an iron band.""
Before anyone could reply, the library door opened. Leo Vance walked in, carrying a silver tray with a freshly poured tumbler of ice water and a crystal decanter of vintage Scotch.
""The guests have been seated in the Grand Council Hall, Mr. Valdora,"" Leo said smoothly, his posture bowing with deferential grace. ""Mr. Moretti requested to begin immediately. He mentioned that he has an evening flight back to Atlantic City.""
""Let him wait another ten minutes,"" Gaspar said coldly. ""He doesn't dictate my schedule in my own home.""
""Of course, sir,"" Leo replied. His eyes lingered on Gaspar’s throat, noting the flush of red irritation creeping up beneath the starched collar where the steel stay pressed against the flesh. A microscopic, satisfied smile touched the corner of the butler’s mouth before he stepped backward out of the room.
Outside in the service hallway, hidden behind an ornate marble pedestal holding a bronze bust of Julius Caesar, Agatha waited with bated breath.
She had watched Leo leave the library. She had seen the subtle smirk on his face. Her heart pounded like a hammer against her ribs. She looked down at the Swedish tailoring shears concealed inside her pocket.
If she tried to warn Remo Calder now, Leo would claim she was a deranged domestic worker trying to disrupt the most critical mafia summit of the decade. Remo was high-strung, stressed beyond reason, and would likely lock her in a basement storage unit until the meeting was over—by which time Gaspar would already be dead.
She had to see the shirt with her own eyes. She had to witness how Gaspar reacted when the pressure built.
Through the narrow mahogany double doors at the end of the hall, the low, gravelly voices of the commission leaders began to rumble. The meeting was commencing. Six men who despised each other, gathered in one room, bound only by a fragile treaty of mutual terror.
Agatha crept along the service corridor toward the council hall’s observation gallery—a narrow balcony once used by musicians during the roaring twenties, now masked by heavy velvet drapes overlooking the massive banquet room below.
She parted the velvet curtains by an inch and peered down into the lion's den.
At the head of the forty-foot walnut table sat Gaspar Valdora. To his right sat Sal Moretti, an overweight, scarred veteran of the waterfront wars, tapping a heavy gold signet ring against the wood. To his left sat Vincent Donovan, a ruthless operator from the Midwest whose cold blue eyes never stopped scanning Gaspar’s face.
""Fourteen times, Gaspar,"" Sal Moretti’s raspy voice echoed through the high-vaulted room, cutting through the silence like a rusty blade. ""That's the number circulating from Brooklyn to Boston. Fourteen times you’ve dropped like a sack of wet flour. My men say you’re sick. Some say you've got an aneurysm. Others say your heart is giving up.""
Gaspar Valdora didn't blink. He leaned forward, resting his massive forearms on the table, fixing Moretti with a look so glacial it made the other bosses shift uncomfortably in their leather chairs.
""If you believe I’m dying, Sal,"" Gaspar said softly, every syllable dripping with lethal intent, ""why don't you stand up from that chair and try to take my chair right now?""
The room went dead silent. The tension was so thick Agatha could hardly breathe on the balcony above.
Sal Moretti sneered, leaning back. ""Nobody’s rushing, Gaspar. We just want to know if the man holding the keys to the port terminals can stay on his feet long enough to sign the new distribution charters. Or if we should start electing your successor today.""
Moretti spoke from Gaspar's left side.
Gaspar started to turn his head sharply to the left to face Moretti down.
May you like
Agatha’s eyes widened in horror. She saw the heavy, rigid cotton of the high collar pull taut against the left side of Gaspar’s neck. The curved steel tip beneath the fabric bore directly into the bifurcation of his carotid artery.
Gaspar’s pupils suddenly dilated. The color drained from his lips in a single, terrifying instant. His massive shoulders twitched, and his breath caught in his throat.
