Chapter 8 - The Betrayal of the Lieutenant
By noon the following day, the storm over the estate had passed, leaving behind a brilliant, crisp golden sunlight that flooded through the tall, arched bay windows of the Moretti grand ballroom.
The ballroom was a sea of luxury, polished marble, and dark suits. Fifty senior syndicate leaders, regional lieutenants, and corrupt politicians from across the country sat around a massive circular oak table, surrounded by heavily armed guards.
Sitting at the head of the table, bound in heavy steel cuffs and guarded by four loyal Moretti enforcers, was Dante Russo.
Standing at the front of the room was Adrian Moretti. He wore his tailored dark suit, dark shirt, and black hat, his broad posture radiating the absolute, terrifying authority of an undisputed mafia king.
The fifty syndicate leaders whispered in tense, hushed tones, eyeing the hard-faced Don standing before them.
"Adrian!" a senior boss from Chicago called out from the table. "You summoned the entire national council on six hours' notice! What is the meaning of this emergency assembly?!"
Adrian walked slowly to the center of the marble hall, his polished leather shoes clicking loudly against the floor.
"Six hours ago," Adrian announced, his gravelly voice carrying clearly across the quiet ballroom, "my chief lieutenant, Dante Russo, attempted to assassinate me using synthetic neurotoxins."
Gasps reverberated through the hall. The syndicate leaders looked at Dante in shock and anger.
"Dante acted under the direct order of Lord Valenti in Rome," Adrian continued, pulling the decrypted satellite transcripts from his coat and setting them flat on the oak table. "He attempted to eliminate me to prevent the discovery of Marcus Moretti's legitimate bloodline heir."
Dante looked up from his seat, his fair skin pale, his eyes filled with bitter, desperate rage. "She's a maid's bastard, Adrian! A five-year-old child cannot hold voting stock in this coalition!"
"She is a Moretti," Adrian's voice rang out like thunder.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom opened wide.
Walking down the center aisle, flanked by Titan on her right and her mother Elena on her left, was five-year-old Sophia.
Elena wore a clean black-and-white maid uniform with a pristine white apron, her dark hair pulled back neatly, her presence proud and dignified.
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And walking beside her, wearing her pink floral puff-sleeve dress with pink bows, holding her plush teddy bear in her arm, was little Sophia.
The fifty syndicate leaders stood up from their chairs in sudden, awe-struck silence as the child walked smoothly toward the front table, Titan walking beside her like a massive, terrifying royal escort.
