Chapter 3 - The Second Betrayal
By noon, the rain had intensified into a squall that whipped the oak trees across the front lawn of the Moretti compound.
In the private study, the air was thick with the scent of Cuban tobacco and burnt paper. Aleandro sat behind his heavy desk, watching a bank of six security monitors set into the wooden cabinetry.
On Monitor 1, three unmarked black vans were parked along the shoulder of the highway two miles south of the estate gate—Vance’s federal tactical team waiting for the signal that would never come.
On Monitor 4, Isabella sat in the windowless basement holding room, staring at the concrete wall, her hands bound with plastic zip-ties.
On Monitor 6, the main security gates clicked open, allowing a silver Bentley to roll smoothly up the curved driveway.
Aleandro leaned forward, tapping his fingers against his whiskey glass. "He's right on time."
The door to the study opened, and Reggie, Aleandro’s underboss and closest friend for twenty-five years, walked in. Reggie looked exhausted; his hair was thinning, and he wore a dark velvet jacket over a bulletproof vest.
"Don Carmine is here, Aleandro," Reggie said, his voice strained. "He brought four of his senior capos with him. They're carrying heavy iron in their coats."
"Let them in," Aleandro commanded quietly.
"Aleandro... are you sure about this?" Reggie stepped closer to the desk, his eyes darting nervously toward the hallway. "If Isabella really turned state's evidence, Carmine has to be in on it. He’s using the wedding as a trojan horse to wipe out our whole upper council in one move! We should take them out in the driveway!"
Aleandro looked up at Reggie. He studied his underboss’s face—the man who had stood beside him during the West Side turf wars of 2018, the man who had taken a bullet in his shoulder to save Aleandro’s father fifteen years ago.
"Patience, Reggie," Aleandro said softly. "A house built on lies doesn't fall down all at once. You have to remove the pillars one by one so you can see who is standing beneath the roof when it collapses."
A moment later, the double doors of the study swung open.
Carmine Romano walked in, leaning heavily on a carved ivory cane. He was seventy years old, with silver hair swept back from a face lined with decades of ruthless street politics. Behind him stood his chief enforcer, a hulking man named Dino, and two armed guards.
"Aleandro, my boy!" Carmine boomed, his voice carrying the deep, raspy resonance of a lifelong smoker. He held out his arms as if to embrace his future son-in-law. "What is this urgent meeting about? The caterers are demanding another fifty thousand for the seafood bar, and Isabella isn't answering her phone!"
Aleandro didn't stand up. He remained seated behind his desk, swirling the dark amber liquid in his glass.
"Isabella is unavailable, Carmine," Aleandro said flatly. "She's currently resting in my private holding suite downstairs."
Carmine froze. The warm, patriarchal smile on his face vanished like smoke in a gale. His hand tightened over the head of his ivory cane.
"What did you say?" Carmine rasped, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"I said she's downstairs," Aleandro repeated, setting his glass down with a heavy, deliberate thud. "Right next to the evidence files she's been preparing for Agent Vance over the last two years."
Dino moved his hand toward his armpit, but before his fingers could reach his holster, Reggie drew his weapon from behind his back and aimed it directly at Dino’s forehead.
"Don't do it, Dino," Reggie growled. "You won't clear the leather before your brains are on the bookshelf."
Carmine didn't look at the guns. He stared directly at Aleandro, his jaw working as if chewing on glass.
"You think my daughter is a traitor?" Carmine sneered, stepping closer to the desk. "She’s a Romano! She did what she had to do to protect our family business! Your father squeezed us out of the docks ten years ago, Aleandro! You thought we forgot? You thought I was going to let your bloodline take everything my grandfather built in this city?"
Aleandro leaned back in his chair, a cold, almost melancholic smile touching his lips.
"I know all about the docks, Carmine," Aleandro said softly. "I know you sent Isabella to work with the DOJ. I know you promised Vance my whole empire on a silver platter in exchange for a full pardon for the Romano family's tax fraud."
Carmine spat on the Persian rug. "Then you know it's over, kid! Vance has this place surrounded! If I don't walk out those gates in twenty minutes, his teams hit this house with a federal warrant!"
"They won't," Aleandro said quietly.
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a secondary file—a thick, blue leather folder stamped with the seal of the United States Attorney General.
He tossed it onto the mahogany desk.
"What is that?" Carmine growled.
"That," Aleandro said, "is a signed executive immunity contract for the Moretti family, authorized three hours ago by the Deputy Attorney General in Washington."
Carmine blinked, stunned. "What... what are you talking about?"
"You thought Isabella was the only one playing chess, Carmine?" Aleandro’s voice dropped into a terrifying, lethal register. "Six months ago, I realized someone was leaking our shipping routes. I didn't fight the DOJ. I bought their bosses."
Aleandro stood up, his dark shadow towering over the aging Don.
"I gave Washington the full financial networks of the Chicago syndicate, the Russian syndicates in New York, and the Miami cartels. In exchange, I received total federal immunity for myself, my men, and my assets. The only condition was that I had to deliver a high-value target to take the fall for the Chicago operations."
Carmine’s face turned grey. "No..."
"Yes, Carmine," Aleandro whispered, leaning across the desk until his pale eyes were inches from Carmine’s face. "I gave them you. And I gave them Isabella."
Carmine stumbled back, his cane slipping on the rug. "You... you set us up..."
"No," Aleandro corrected softly. "You set yourselves up. You brought the snake into my bed, Carmine. I just let it bite the hand that fed it."
Before Carmine could respond, the heavy study doors burst open again.
Four armed men in black tactical gear poured into the room. But they weren't Mercer's security guards. And they weren't federal agents.
They were wearing the insignia of the Corvini syndicate—the third and most violent faction in Cook County.
At their head stood a man with a scarred neck and a cruel, jagged smile—Marco Corvini.
"Well, well, well," Marco laughed, raising an assault rifle and aiming it directly at Aleandro’s chest. "Look at the old kings fighting over the crown while the house burns down around them."
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Aleandro didn't look surprised. He turned his eyes slowly toward Reggie—his underboss, his best friend—who had quietly lowered his gun from Dino's head and walked over to stand beside Marco Corvini.
"Reggie," Aleandro said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I wondered when you were going to show your face."
