Chapter 8 - The Confrontation in the Cellar
The applause that followed the final crescendo of the waltz sounded distant, like waves breaking against a cliff far below. Ciro didn't release his hold on my waist until the final note had faded completely, his fingers pressing into my hip through the crimson velvet, reminding me of the morning in the breakfast room.
My father was no longer in the ballroom. Neither was Roberto.
""Wait here with Brin,"" Ciro said, glancing toward the arched doorway where Brin had just appeared, looking pale and nervous in a navy evening gown. ""I have business downstairs.""
""No,"" I said, catching his forearm. My grip was tight, my nails digging into the fine wool of his tuxedo sleeve. ""You said I was part of this family. You said I had Moretti blood. Roberto tried to have me murdered on that pier, Ciro. I am not going to sit up here drinking champagne while you settle my debt behind closed doors.""
He stared down at me, his jaw tightening as he weighed my words. For a second, I thought he was going to order two guards to drag me to a private room. Instead, a flash of dark pride lit his features.
""You really are your father's daughter,"" he murmured. ""Stay behind me. Keep your mouth shut.""
We took the private service elevator down three levels beneath the Drake Hotel, into the historic brick cellars where the original bootleggers had stored barrels during Prohibition. The air down here was damp, cold, and smelled of moldering oak and wet stone.
At the end of the long vaulted corridor, two guards stood outside a reinforced iron door. They stepped aside instantly, pushing the door open to reveal a windowless room lit by a single hanging bulb.
Uncle Roberto was sitting on a wooden chair in the center of the room, his tuxedo jacket torn, his face battered and bloody. My father stood over him, holding a heavy silver revolver loosely at his side, looking older and more exhausted than I had ever seen him.
""You swore an oath, Roberto,"" my father said, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and profound heartbreak. ""To our father. To me. To the family.""
""To your family!"" Roberto spat, blood spraying from his split lip onto the concrete. ""You were going to hand everything over to this stray! To Ciro! What about my sons? What about my branch of the name? You sent your daughter to Europe, and you gave the entire empire to an orphan who would slit your throat the second you got too weak to hold a fork!""
""Ciro didn't betray me,"" Marco said softly. ""You did.""
Roberto looked up, his crazed, bloodshot eyes landing on me as I stepped into the room behind Ciro. A vile sneer twisted his face. ""And look at her. The little princess. You should have stayed in Lisbon, Leora. If you had stayed on your little art tours, you wouldn't have to watch your family die.""
""Shut up,"" Ciro said. The words weren't loud, but the room went completely still.
Ciro walked toward Roberto with the slow, terrifying patience of an apex predator. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't raise his fists. He simply stood over my uncle, his shadow completely swallowing the older man.
""You brought Russians into Chicago,"" Ciro said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, which made it ten times more horrifying. ""You put a target on a Moretti heir. And worst of all, Roberto... you made her pull a trigger. You forced her to look at the dirt we crawl in.""
""She's a Moretti!"" Roberto screamed. ""She belongs in the dirt with the rest of us!""
Ciro reached down, grabbed Roberto by the lapels of his ruined tuxedo, and hoisted him off the chair with one arm as if he weighed nothing. He slammed him backward against the damp brick wall with a sickening crunch.
""No,"" Ciro whispered, leaning in until his nose was an inch from Roberto’s ear. ""She belongs to the sky. I crawl in the dirt so she doesn't have to. And you just lost the right to breathe the same air.""
Ciro turned his head toward my father. ""Marco. Your house. Your call.""
My father closed his eyes for three long seconds. When he opened them, the heartbreak had hardened into the cold, merciless slate of the Don. He slowly raised the silver revolver, aiming it directly at his brother's chest.
May you like
""Walk her out, Ciro,"" my father whispered. ""Take her upstairs.""
Ciro didn't hesitate. He spun on his heel, reached for my hand, and pulled me out of the cellar before the shot could be fired. As the heavy iron door slammed shut behind us, the muffled crack of a single gunshot echoed through the concrete corridor, followed by absolute, final silence."
