Chapter 2 - The Council of Wolves
The heavy oak doors swung open to admit three men whose very presence seemed to suck the oxygen out of the hallway.
First came Salvatore "Sal" Rossi, the syndicate’s aging underboss, whose face looked like it had been carved out of old granite and weathered by forty years of gangland turf wars. Behind him walked Marcus Vance—Isabella’s uncle and the financial architect of the Romano empire’s legitimate front companies—followed by Frankie "The Hook" Gallo, a volatile enforcer whose right hand had been crushed in a cargo press back in the nineties and never quite healed straight.
They brought with them the chill of the October wind and the unmistakable stench of impending betrayal.
“Allessandro,” Sal rumbled, removing his black felt hat and tossing it onto the mahogany side table without looking. His dark eyes darted around the dining room, taking in Isabella’s rigid posture, Allessandro’s untouched plate of bread, and the shrinking figure of six-year-old Emma near the sideboard. “Morning is half over. We have figures to sign off on before the dock union meets at noon.”
“Let them wait,” Allessandro said. His voice was flat, devoid of its usual welcoming warmth. He remained seated at the head of the long table, his hands resting quietly on either side of his plate.
Marcus Vance frowned, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles as he stepped further into the room. He was a tall, silver-haired man wearing an expensive charcoal suit that cost more than a working-class family’s annual rent. “Is something wrong, Allessandro? You look... distracted. And your breakfast is cold.”
“My breakfast is lethal,” Allessandro corrected quietly.
The four men froze. Sal Rossi’s bushy white eyebrows drew together in a sharp V. Frankie Gallo’s hand drifted instinctively toward his left armpit, where a suppressed automatic rested in a shoulder rig. Isabella stiffened in her chair, her fingernails digging so hard into the polished armrest that the leather groaned.
“What did you say?” Sal demanded, taking two heavy steps toward the table.
“I said,” Allessandro repeated, picking up the small crystal butter dish between two fingers and sliding it across the polished wood until it stopped inches from Sal’s knuckles, “that someone in this house wants me dead before the wedding.”
Marcus Vance’s face drained of color, though whether from shock or calculated panic was difficult to tell. “Allessandro, that is an absurd accusation! Who could possibly—?”
“Ask your niece,” Allessandro interrupted, his eyes fixed on Marcus. “She’s the one who spent her midnight hours playing chemist in my kitchen.”
Isabella stood up so fast her chair screeched loudly against the tile floor. “This is insane!” she cried, her voice rising to a shrill, defensive pitch that shattered her composed facade. “You’re listening to a hysterical servant’s child? You’re doubting me—the woman who has stood by your side through three federal indictments and two assassination attempts—over the bedtime stories of a six-year-old maid?”
“She wasn't telling a story,” a quiet voice piped up from the corner.
Every man in the room whipped his head around.
Emma stood by the sideboard, her small chin trembling, but her eyes steady and unyielding. She didn't drop her gaze. She looked directly at Sal Rossi, then at Marcus Vance, and finally at Isabella.
“I saw her,” Emma said clearly, her small voice echoing off the high stone walls. “She had a white bottle. She crushed the white pills into powder with the back of a silver spoon. She put it in the butter and rubbed it smooth so the lines went away.”
Frankie Gallo let out a harsh, bark-like laugh. “Are you kidding me? We’re stopping a multi-million-dollar syndicate council because a brat dropped a dish?”
“Shut up, Frankie,” Sal Rossi growled. The old underboss stepped closer to the table, ignoring the food and staring down at Allessandro. Sal had known Allessandro’s father; he had held Allessandro when he was a baby. He knew when the young boss was joking, and he knew when blood was about to be spilled. “Allessandro. You tested it?”
“I don't need to test it,” Allessandro said softly. He stood up slowly, towering over the table. The dark gray fabric of his vest stretched across his broad shoulders. He looked down at Isabella, whose chest was heaving beneath her camel-hair blouse. “Isabella hasn't touched her own coffee since she sat down. She hasn't looked at me once without calculating her exit vector. And her uncle Marcus has sweat pooling behind his ears, even though the room is fifty-five degrees.”
Marcus Vance stepped back, raising his hands defensively. “Now wait just a minute, Allessandro! You’re letting paranoia cloud your judgment! If you suspect something, let’s call Dr. Morelle, let’s send the food to a lab—!”
“There’s no time for a lab,” Allessandro said.
In one fluid, terrifying motion, Allessandro reached down, grabbed the thick slice of bread smothered in the poisoned butter, and lifted it toward his mouth.
“Allessandro, no!” Isabella screamed, lunging forward with her hands outspread.
The entire room erupted into chaos. Sal Rossi cursed in Sicilian; Frankie Gallo yanked his gun halfway out of his holster; Marcus Vance shouted for order.
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But Allessandro didn't eat it. Instead, he dropped the slice of bread directly onto the floor in front of a heavy iron cage resting near the radiator—where Barnaby, the syndicate’s massive three-year-old mastiff, had been sleeping through the morning commotion.
The huge dog ambled forward, sniffing lazily at the golden crust. With a single wet snap, Barnaby swallowed the bread whole.
