Chapter 6 - The Table Of Traitors
At 11:58 AM, the atmosphere inside the grand ballroom reached a boiling point.
“We want to hear from Lorenzo directly, Vincent!” shouted Capo Moretti, a hardened veteran from Brooklyn, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table. “You expect us to hand over the keys to the entire East Coast operation based on your word alone? Where is the doctor’s report? Where is his signature?”
Vincent’s smile tightened into a razor blade. He gestured subtly to his armed guards standing around the perimeter of the room. The guards slowly unbuttoned their jackets.
“Lorenzo is incapable of signing anything, Moretti,” Vincent lied smoothly, leaning forward. “And I suggest you remember who controls the security detail in this building before you raise your voice again. The vote will happen now.”
Ding-ding-ding.
The clear, high sound of a silver dinner bell echoed through the massive ballroom, cutting through the tense silence like a crystal blade.
The capos froze. Vincent’s head snapped toward the grand double doors.
The massive oak doors swung open slowly, creaking on their heavy brass hinges.
Standing in the center of the doorway was not a team of tactical guards or an army of hitmen.
It was a three-year-old girl in a wrinkled red corduroy dress, holding a silver dinner bell in one hand and a half-eaten biscotti in the other.
“What the hell is this?” Vincent roared, standing up from his chair. “Paulie! Get that child out of here!”
Paulie stepped forward to grab Emma, but before his hand could touch her shoulder, a voice roared from the gallery balcony above, loud and clear as thunder:
“Touch her, Paulie, and you die where you stand!”
Every head in the room turned upward.
Standing on the gallery ledge, battered, bloodied, but standing erect and powerful with a firearm locked onto Vincent’s chest, was Lorenzo DeLuca.
Gasps exploded across the room. Capo Moretti stood up, his eyes wide with shock. “Lorenzo!”
“He’s an impostor! Shoot him!” Vincent screamed, panic instantly shattering his calm facade. He reached for his shoulder holster, but before his guards could draw their weapons, the massive projection screen behind the head table flickered to life.
Sophia had pressed play.
The high-definition speakers in the ceiling blasted Vincent’s voice across the room, crystal clear:
“I’m telling you, prosecutor, Lorenzo will be dead before noon. I’ll pin the leak on his maid, wipe the books, and hand over the Brooklyn docks to your task force for twenty million in federal bonds…”
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The video played in high clarity, showing Vincent sitting behind Lorenzo’s desk, handing over secret financial ledgers to known federal agents and rival family bosses.
The ballroom exploded into pure chaos.
