Chapter 4 - The Old Guard's Secret
Silvio Bellucci sat in a high-backed leather armchair in the private lounge of the North End Social Club, nursing an espresso with a splash of sambuca. At seventy-one, Silvio was the revered patriarch of the Bellucci extended family—the elder statesman whose word settled disputes between rival crews from Providence to New Hampshire. When Roman’s Cadillac screeched to a halt outside the cobblestone alley, followed by four black SUVs packed with heavily armed enforcers, Silvio didn't even flinch.
The heavy oak doors of the club burst open with a splintering crack. Roman stepped into the cigar-smoke haze, flanked by Elias. Clara and Ellie were secured in an armored vehicle two blocks away under the watchful eye of Roman’s most trusted bodyguards, while Serena remained locked in the estate’s wine cellar.
The elderly patrons playing cards at the front tables scrambled out of their chairs, terrified by the sheer murder radiating from the young don.
“Roman,” Silvio said smoothly, setting his porcelain cup onto its saucer with an agonizingly slow, rhythmic motion. “I received word that your wedding was interrupted. A tragic misunderstanding with the Valente girl, I presume? I warned you that bringing that bloodline into our house would bring nothing but bad omens.”
Roman walked straight to the table, pulled out a wooden chair, and turned it around, resting his forearms on the backrest as he stared directly into his uncle’s weathered, calculating face.
“We found Carlo Moretti’s daughter, Uncle,” Roman said, his tone devoid of all emotion.
Silvio’s hand, reaching for a silver cigar cutter, paused for a fraction of a second. It was an imperceptible hesitation to an ordinary man, but Roman had been trained by the streets to spot the precise moment a target realized the net had closed around them.
“Carlo died a long time ago, nephew,” Silvio murmured, recovering his composure. “A coward who ran away with our family’s wealth while Vittorio was still warm in the cemetery.”
“Nathan Valente took the bullets meant for Carlo,” Roman continued, leaning in until he could smell the stale tobacco on Silvio’s breath. “Nathan lost two fingers keeping Clara alive. And tonight, Nathan came to Boston not to wage war, but to retrieve the ledger from Vault 17 before you could burn it. You orchestrated the bomb on Storrow Drive, didn't you? You wanted Vittorio out of the way because he was preparing to legitimate our port operations and cut out the extortion rackets you personally controlled.”
Silvio sighed, leaning back into the deep leather cushions. The grandfatherly facade vanished entirely, replaced by the cold, ruthless sneer of an old-school mobster who regretted nothing.
“Vittorio had gone soft, Roman!” Silvio hissed, his voice dropping into a harsh rasp. “He was meeting with federal prosecutors! He wanted to turn the Bellucci empire into a clean logistics firm, leaving the men who bled on the pavement with nothing! I built this empire with Vittorio’s father! I wasn't going to let your father throw it away for a clean conscience and a suburban retirement!”
Elias gasped from behind Roman, his hand flying to his pistol. “You killed your own brother, you bastard?”
“I saved this family!” Silvio snarled, slamming his fist onto the marble table. “And you, Roman... you were supposed to be our weapon. For twelve years, you fought the Valentes like an obedient dog, distracting everyone while I skimmed millions from the union pension funds. But then you had to go and propose peace to Serena. You had to go and open the old files. You left me no choice.”
May you like
The side doors of the lounge flew open. Six armed men wearing unmarked tactical gear and ski masks stepped out, machine guns raised, aiming directly at Roman and Elias’s backs.
Silvio smiled, a ghastly, triumphant grin exposing yellowed teeth. “You should have stayed at the altar, nephew.”
