Chapter 4 - The Snake in the Tower
The rain had stopped by 2:00 AM, leaving the towers of downtown Chicago gleaming under a low ceiling of yellow fog.
The Moretti Enterprise Building on La Salle Street was silent, its seventy floors of glass and steel dark against the night sky. But on the penthouse floor, inside the soundproof boardroom lined with dark mahogany and leather, a single lamp was burning.
Vincent Moretti—my father’s younger brother, my uncle, and the senior consigliere of my organization—sat behind the massive desk, sipping scotch from a crystal glass.
Vincent was sixty-two years old, impeccably groomed in a tailor-made double-breasted suit, his silver hair neatly combed back. He was the diplomat of our family, the man who handled the bankers, the judges, and the union bosses. The man who had held me at my daughter’s funeral while I wept.
The heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open.
I walked in alone. My dark coat was stained with rain and soot, my gloves were tucked into my pocket, and the black leather folder was held firmly in my right hand.
Vincent set his glass down, offering a weary, concerned smile. "Marco... my God, boy. Frank called me. He said there was an incident in Cicero? What were you doing in Marcone territory at this hour?"
I didn't answer. I walked slowly across the plush Persian rug, stopping at the edge of the glass boardroom table.
I threw the black leather folder onto the center of the table.
It slid across the polished wood, stopping inches from his scotch glass.
Vincent’s smile faltered slightly. His brown eyes flicked down to the gold seal on the folder, then back up to my face.
"What is this?" he asked softly.
"Antonio Romano's statement," I said, my voice dead and cold. "Recorded three days before he died."
Vincent didn't touch the folder. He leaned back in his leather chair, resting his hands flat on the armrests, his face morphing from warm concern into a blank, unreadable mask.
"Antonio Romano was a confused security guard, Marco," Vincent said smoothly. "He suffered severe smoke inhalation. His mind was playing tricks on him before he passed."
"The detonator wiring was military-grade C4 with a gold-plated firing pin," I said, stepping closer. "Only three people in Illinois had access to that specific shipment from the docks three years ago. Me, my late father... and you."
Silence settled over the room like a heavy shroud.
Vincent slowly picked up his scotch glass, took a small sip, and set it back down.
"Why, Vincent?" I asked, the words rasped out through a throat tight with three years of hidden agony. "Elena was like a daughter to you. Claire... Claire was your grand-niece. She called you Uncle Vinny."
Vincent sighed—a long, tired sound that carried no regret, no shame, only cold, practical calculation.
"You were making us soft, Marco," Vincent said, his tone shockingly calm. "Your father built an empire with iron and blood. But when you married Elena, when Claire was born... you started talking about going legal. You started talking about selling off our holdings in the harbor, transferring our funds into legitimate real estate foundations, walking away from the street."
He stood up, his tall frame looming behind the desk.
"This family generates two hundred million dollars a year, Marco!" Vincent’s voice cracked like a whip. "We own this city! I wasn't going to let a three-year-old girl and a sweet-talking woman turn the supreme ruler of Chicago into a soft, law-abiding landlord!"
"So you put a bomb under my car," I whispered.
"The bomb was meant for you!" Vincent shouted, his eyes flashing with sudden, violent fire. "You were supposed to be in that car alone! Elena and the kid were supposed to be at her mother's house in Evanston! But you changed your schedule! You took them to dinner!"
He slammed his fist onto the mahogany table.
"It was an accident that they were in that car, Marco!" Vincent roared. "I tried to fix it! I paid Marcone to take the blame so you would focus your rage on the South Side! I built you into the monster this family needed you to be!"
I stared at him.
The man who had hugged me at the cemetery. The man who had sat beside me while I drank myself into stupors night after night. The man who had watched me turn into a stone-hearted ghost, knowing every second that he had murdered my child.
"You didn't build a monster, Vincent," I said softly, reaching into my pocket. "You just built your own executioner."
Vincent’s eyes widened as he saw the Kimber .45 clear my coat.
He lunged toward his desk drawer for his own weapon, but he was old, and I was driven by the spirits of two dead angels.
BANG.
A single shot echoed through the penthouse boardroom, shattering the silence of the night.
Vincent froze mid-lunge. He looked down at his chest, where a dark crimson circle was spreading across his bespoke silk tie. He looked up at me, his mouth opening, trying to speak, but no sound came out.
May you like
He fell backward into his leather chair, his head slumping to the side, his lifeless eyes staring up at the grand crystal chandelier above.
I lowered my weapon. I walked over to the desk, picked up the black leather folder, and turned my back on his body, stepping out into the cold night air.
