Chapter 6 - The Trojan Horse
The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate gleamed under the crystal chandeliers, filled with the city’s elite—politicians, judges, corporate executives, and high-ranking syndicate bosses who wore expensive tuxedos while hiding their bloodstained hands.
I stood near the mahogany bar, holding a crystal glass of bourbon, watching the room with predatory calm. Beside me stood Marco, looking every bit the loyal, distinguished advisor in his bespoke Italian suit.
“Everything is in position for the port acquisition vote tomorrow, Boss,” Marco said smoothly, raising his own champagne flute. “The board members are fully cooperative. It’s a pity little Isabella couldn't join us tonight. The stress of her condition... it weighs heavily on all of us.”
“Indeed, Marco,” I replied, keeping my eyes locked on his face, searching for even the slightest micro-expression of guilt. “Family is everything. You betray family, and there is nowhere left to hide.”
Marco’s hand stuttered for a fraction of a millimeter on his glass, his eyes narrowing slightly before he recovered his polite smile. “Wise words, Dante. Always.”
Across the room, Sophia stood near the service entrance, keeping a watchful eye on Emma, who was dressed in a pristine white party dress, holding Isabella’s hand near the grand staircase.
Isabella was sitting in her wheelchair, but something was different. Underneath her long velvet dress, her legs were no longer limp; Elena had administered the serum an hour ago in the privacy of the master suite. Now, they were waiting for the final trigger—the emotional anchor that would convince Isabella’s brain to override the psychological block holding her down.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marco announced, stepping up to the microphone on the elevated dais to kick off the charity auction. “Before we begin the bidding for tonight’s primary art collection, I’d like to invite our host, Dante Moretti, to say a few words about the future of our foundation.”
Applause rippled through the room. I set my glass down, walking slowly up the marble steps to the microphone.
As I reached the podium, the heavy oak doors at the main entrance suddenly blew open.
A dozen armed men in tactical gear poured into the ballroom, raising silenced submachine guns. Panic erupted among the guests as screams echoed off the high ceilings. Women dropped their designer purses; men dove behind mahogany tables.
At the center of the armed group walked Alistair Vance, flanked by his chief enforcer. Vance wore a self-satisfied grin, his silver hair neatly combed, looking like a vulture ready to feast on a dying empire.
“Good evening, Dante,” Vance called out, his voice echoing across the silent, terrified hall. “Party’s over.”
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Marco immediately stepped away from me, walking down the dais to stand beside Vance, shedding his mask of loyalty like a cheap coat.
“It’s over, Dante,” Marco sneered, pulling a small electronic drive from his pocket. “The ports, the syndicates, the accounts—they belong to Vance Global now.”
