Chapter 3 - THE DINNER OF VULTURES
At 8:00 p.m., the dining room of the Moretti estate was filled with the heavy scent of roasted lamb, aged red wine, and ambition.
Sitting around the thirty-foot mahogany table were the surviving heads of the Moretti bloodline.
At the head sat Uncle Silvio, sixty-five years old, with silver hair, a tailored Italian suit, and eyes like a cold-blooded reptile. Beside him sat his son, Marco, my forty-year-old cousin whose gambling debts in Las Vegas were an open secret in the underworld. Across from them sat two senior capos, Bernardo and Leo, men who had served my father for thirty years and now watched me with quiet, measuring eyes.
And at the foot of the table sat me.
I wore a charcoal suit, my dark hair slicked back, my posture rigid. But unlike the previous three years, where I sat at these meetings looking like a hollow corpse with dark purple circles under my eyes, tonight I looked sharp. Dangerous. Rested.
I noticed Marco fidgeting with his signet ring, his eyes darting toward me every few seconds with an expression that looked suspiciously like disappointment. He had expected to see a crumbling, paranoid wreck. Instead, he was looking at a predator who had just woken up from a long sleep.
"Dominic," Uncle Silvio began, setting his crystal wine glass down with a soft click. "You look... surprisingly well tonight. Word among the guards was that your health was declining rapidly."
"The guards talk too much, Uncle," I replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of my Barolo. "That's why I replaced half the night shift this morning."
Marco flinched slightly. "Replaced them? You fired Frank? He’s been with us for five years!"
"Frank was careless," I said flatly, locking my eyes onto Marco’s face. "Careless men get people killed. You should know that better than anyone, Marco. How are your debts in Tahoe holding up?"
Marco’s face flushed red. "My personal finances are none of your business, Dominic!"
"Everything in this family is my business," I corrected, my voice dropping into a register that made the entire table go quiet. "Especially when family members start looking for shortcuts to clear their balance sheets."
Silvio cleared his throat, raising a hand to placate his son. "Let's not squabble like street thugs during dinner. You said you called us here to discuss Anthony's estate, Dominic. His remaining European assets have been frozen in a Swiss trust for three years. The family needs those funds liquid."
"Anthony's trust requires a primary key to unlock," I said, leaning back in my chair. "A cryptographic key stored on a physical ledger. We never found it after the explosion in Milan."
"Because it was destroyed in the car!" Marco blurted out. "Everyone knows that! The Swiss bank needs to accept his death certificate and release the funds to the next of kin—which is my father!"
"Is it?" I asked softly.
I reached into my inner jacket pocket, pulled out a small, worn piece of parchment, and laid it on the white tablecloth.
The room went dead silent.
"What is that?" Silvio asked, his sharp eyes narrowing.
"A note," I said lied smoothly, keeping my tone entirely conversational. "Found inside Anthony's personal journal, which was retrieved from his private safe in Como yesterday. It contains a short nursery rhyme about a lion, a mouse, and a key hidden under a stone."
I watched every face at the table like a hawk.
Bernardo and Leo looked confused, entirely out of the loop.
Marco swallowed hard, his hands dropping below the table to clutch his linen napkin.
But it was Uncle Silvio's reaction that gave me everything I needed.
His eyes didn't look at the paper. They snapped directly to mine with a sudden, lethal sharpness. His jaw tightened so hard I could hear the faint click of his teeth.
He recognized the rhyme.
"Nursery rhymes?" Silvio scoffed, forcing a cold, raspy laugh. "Dominic, you're grasping at straws. The pressure of leadership is making you lose your mind. You bring us here to show us child's poetry while our business in New York is being squeezed by the Russians?"
"It's not just poetry, Silvio," I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the table. "My brother was paranoid before he died. He knew someone in this family was leaking our shipping routes to the DEA. He hid the master ledger—the ledger that contains the names of every corrupt official, every bank account, and every traitor in the Moretti family—in a secure location."
I paused, letting the silence stretch until it was suffocating.
"And he left the clue to finding it in a story he told to a woman he trusted three years ago."
Marco stood up so fast his chair screeched against the marble floor. "This is absurd! You're completely unhinged! Father, we don't have to sit here and listen to this paranoid drivel!"
"Sit down, Marco," Silvio commanded quietly, never breaking eye contact with me.
Marco hesitated, then slowly sank back into his chair, sweating profusely.
Silvio leaned back, his eyes cold as ice. "If this... story exists, Dominic, where is this woman? Who did Anthony confide in?"
"She's close," I answered smoothly. "Very close. In fact, she's lived on this estate for two years."
A cold wind seemed to sweep through the grand dining room.
I stood up, adjusting the cuffs of my suit jacket. "Enjoy the rest of your dinner, gentlemen. The security grid on the estate has been doubled tonight. No one leaves without my personal clearance."
I turned on my heel and walked out of the dining room, leaving four powerful men sitting in terrified, tense silence.
Ten minutes later, I was walking down the stone path toward the staff cottage behind the east garden.
The night air was crisp, the moon hanging high in the dark sky, casting long silver shadows across the manicured lawns. Two armed guards walked twenty paces behind me, their suppressed rifles held at low ready.
I reached the porch of the cottage and knocked softly on the wooden door.
Silence.
I knocked again. "Sophia. It's Dominic. Open the door."
A light clicked on inside. The deadbolt slid back, and the door opened six inches, held by a heavy brass security chain.
Sophia looked out at me, her eyes wide with terror. She had changed into simple jeans and a dark sweater. Behind her, in the tiny living room, I could see two packed suitcases sitting near the sofa.
She was preparing to run.
"You can't leave, Sophia," I said quietly, leaning my arm against the doorframe.
"Please, Mr. Moretti," she whispered, her voice trembling, tears welling in her eyes. "Please let us go. I didn't say anything! I swear to God I didn't tell her to say those things to you!"
"I know you didn't," I replied gently. "Lily walked into my room on her own. But you know what the story means, don't you?"
May you like
Sophia pulled the chain back and opened the door fully, standing in the doorway, trembling like a leaf in an autumn wind.
"Anthony..." she choked out, her voice barely a breath. "Anthony was my husband."
