Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at Mulberry Street
The following Monday afternoon, Daniel and Sabrina sat in the cramped living room of their Queens home, staring open-mouthed at the legal documents spread across the coffee table. The foreclosure notice with the red stripe had been replaced by a clean, stamped deed bearing the seal of the New York County Clerk's Office, certifying that the property was fully owned by Elena Russo-Moretti.
"Mom," Daniel stammered, his face pale as he looked up from the portfolio. "Two hundred and fifty grand? A brownstone in Queens? And... and who is this guy? Who is Vittorio Moretti?"
Elena stood by the window, looking out over the quiet tree-lined street where the autumn leaves were beginning to turn gold. She was wearing a tailored charcoal coat that cost more than Daniel’s entire car, and on her wrist rested the heavy, quiet gold watch with the stopped clock face that Vittorio had handed her in the municipal corridor eleven months ago.
"He's your stepfather, Daniel," Elena said evenly, turning to face them with a calm, unbreakable authority that neither of them had ever seen in her before. "And he is a very busy man, which means we are moving out of this house by Friday. My new home has an east parlor that requires immaculate dusting, and I have a syndicate to help run."
Sabrina dropped her tablet onto the sofa with a soft clatter, her jaw practically unhinged. "You... you married a mobster? A real mobster?"
"I married a man who keeps his word," Elena corrected, picking up her leather handbag with its newly reinforced brass clasp. "Unlike some people in this room."
Before Daniel could find his voice to argue, a sleek, black armored Maybach pulled up silently to the curb outside. The rear door swung open, and Vittorio Moretti stepped out onto the pavement, looking up toward the window with a patient, unhurried expression. He caught Elena's eye through the glass, raised two fingers in a silent, respectful salute, and waited for his queen to come downstairs.
May you like
Elena turned to her son and daughter-in-law, giving them a small, enigmatic smile that held the weight of forty-six years of survival.
"Don't forget to pack your things," she said, walking toward the front door. "Family dinner is at eight. And try not to gamble away the silverware."
