Chapter 8
Inside the grand ballroom of the Grand Imperial Hotel, the atmosphere was one of opulent, glittering indulgence. Massive crystal chandeliers suspended from vaulted ceilings, casting a warm golden light over two hundred high-society guests dressed in extravagant masquerade ball gowns and tailored tuxedos.
Standing on the elevated marble podium at the front of the room was Captain Victor Sabato. At sixty, Sabato was a ruthless, silver-haired mob lieutenant dressed in an expensive grey tuxedo. He held a crystal glass of champagne in one hand and a microphone in the other, flanked by four heavily armed bodyguards in black suits.
"My friends, captains, and esteemed colleagues," Sabato’s booming voice echoed over the sound system, silencing the chatter in the room. "Tonight, on this Halloween evening, we gather not just to celebrate our success, but to face a somber reality."
The crowd looked up at the podium in quiet attention.
"For ten years," Sabato continued smoothly, his voice laced with practiced deception, "our leader, Mr. Moretti, has carried the heavy burden of his brother's tragic passing. But regretfully, grief has clouded his judgment. He has become isolated, unresponsive, and incapable of guiding this great empire forward."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the assembled captains.
"Therefore," Sabato announced, a cruel, triumphant smile touching his lips, "with the backing of the inner council, I am stepping forward tonight to assume interim leadership of the Moretti network—"
BANG!
The heavy, reinforced double doors at the rear of the grand ballroom were violently kicked off their hinges, crashing onto the marble floor with a deafening roar that shattered the festive atmosphere instantly.
Women screamed, men gasped, and guests scrambled frantically toward the side walls as a collective wave of terror swept through the room.
Stepping through the lingering dust and smoke was Mr. Moretti.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and immensely muscular, his terrifying presence instantly dominated the vast ballroom. His black suit jacket was open, revealing his fitted dress shirt and the dark, intricate tattoos creeping up his neck. His piercing dark eyes burned with an apocalyptic, lethal fury that made every captain in the room freeze in place.
Flanking him were his elite guards, their submachine guns raised, sweeping the room with disciplined precision.
Sabato’s cruel smile vanished instantly. His face turned a sickly, deathly pale, his champagne glass slipping from his trembling fingers and shattering on the marble podium.
"Moretti..." Sabato gasped into the microphone, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "You... you were supposed to be at the estate!"
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Moretti walked down the central red carpet, his polished black shoes clicking with terrifying, slow rhythm. He didn't rush. He moved like an unstoppable force of nature, his gaze locked entirely on the traitor standing on the stage.
"You're giving my eulogy early, Victor," Moretti’s deep baritone rumbled through the ballroom, echoing off the high ceilings without the need for a microphone. "I'm still very much alive."
