Chapter 3 - The Traitor’s Table
By 8:00 PM, a storm was brewing over Lake Michigan, painting the night sky in dark shades of purple and slate gray.
The Vitelli estate in Lake Forest looked like a fortress preparing for a siege. High steel gates locked down the two-mile private driveway, infrared security cameras swept the forest perimeter, and thirty heavily armed guards equipped with tactical submachine guns patroling the grounds in two-man teams.
Inside the second-floor master suite, Sophia was fast asleep under a heavy silk blanket, guarded by two private pediatric nurses and four armed men stationed outside her door.
Downstairs in the main dining room, the heavy mahogany table was set for five.
A single crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the polished wood, silver cutlery, and half-empty glasses of twenty-year-old single malt scotch.
Sitting at the head of the table, wearing a crisp dark suit with my silver signet ring shining on my finger, was me.
To my right sat Antonio Rossi, my head of security—a silent, scarred giant of a man who had been loyal to my father before me. To my left sat two senior captains of the Chicago syndicate.
And sitting directly across from me, smiling warm, swirling his glass of scotch with effortless charm, was Matteo Rizzo.
“I still can’t believe it, Marco,” Matteo said, shaking his head with a look of deep, emotional wonder. “A miracle. A honest-to-God miracle. To walk into an orphanage for a routine charitable event and find your own blood... God must be watching over you, brother.”
I stared at him over the rim of my glass.
I looked at his manicured hands. The expensive Italian watch on his wrist that I had bought him for his forty-fifth birthday. The genuine warmth in his eyes that had fooled me for two decades.
If I hadn't read Alina’s letter four hours ago, I would have hugged this man. I would have called him brother. I would have trusted him with my life.
Now, looking at him, all I saw was a venomous pit viper sitting at my dinner table, eating my food while my wife was locked in some dark room in Indiana.
“It is a miracle, Matteo,” I said smoothly, taking a slow sip of scotch. “Seven years old. She remembers her mother’s voice. She remembers the lullaby Alina used to sing to her.”
Matteo’s hand paused for a fraction of a second on his glass. It was so fast a normal man would have missed it. But I wasn't a normal man tonight. I was a father hunting the man who tore his life apart.
“Does she... ah... does she remember anything about where she was before the orphanage?” Matteo asked casually, leaning back in his chair, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “The police records said she arrived under an assumed name. Lily Moretti, right?”
“Yes,” I lied easily, my voice smooth as silk. “The director said a homeless woman dropped her off at the gate eighteen months ago and ran. No papers. No names. No contacts.”
Matteo let out a long, exaggerated sigh of relief, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Thank God. I was worried some rival crew had her all these years, using her as leverage. You know how the Moretti family operates in New York. Scum. Absolute scum.”
“Speaking of legal papers,” I said, swirling my ice cubes, “I asked Antonio to pull in our legal council tomorrow morning to start the official custody paperwork and update my estate trust.”
Matteo blinked. “Our legal council? You mean Frank Falcone?”
“No,” I said, locking my dark eyes directly onto Matteo’s. “I was thinking of using that independent attorney you mentioned a few years ago. The one who handled your private real estate purchases in Indiana. What was his name again? Daniel Mercer?”
Drop.
A single drop of sweat rolled down from Matteo’s sideburn, tracing the line of his jaw.
The room went completely, suffocatingly quiet.
Antonio shifted his heavy frame near the door, his hand drifting subtly beneath his suit jacket toward the leather holster tucked under his arm.
Matteo forced a laugh, though the sound was dry and hollow. “Mercer? Oh... no, Marco. Mercer is... well, he’s a low-level paper pusher. Real estate tax loops. He doesn't have the muscle or the discretion for a high-profile case like your daughter. Stick with Falcone.”
“Is that so?” I murmured, setting my crystal glass down onto the mahogany table with a quiet, heavy thud. “Because I sent Antonio to Mercer’s office on Michigan Avenue two hours ago.”
Matteo’s smile completely froze.
The color drained from his face so fast it looked as if his blood had ceased to pump. His dark eyes flickered toward the exit doors, then back to me.
“Marco...” Matteo whispered, his voice cracking. “What are you talking about?”
I pulled Alina’s three-page letter from my inner coat pocket and laid it flat on the center of the mahogany table, right between his glass of scotch and mine.
“My wife sends her regards, Matteo,” I said softly.
Matteo stared at the handwriting on the paper.
In a fraction of a second, the loyal lieutenant vanished. The charming childhood friend disappeared. The mask fell off, revealing the ugly, calculating predator underneath.
Matteo didn't apologize. He didn't beg.
Instead, his hand flashed down toward his waistline, reaching for a snub-nosed revolver tucked into his belt.
CRACK!
Antonio moved like a lightning bolt. Before Matteo’s fingers could touch his grip, Antonio slammed his heavy combat boot onto Matteo’s right wrist, pinning it against the mahogany table with a sickening crunch of bone.
Matteo shrieked in agony, dropping to his knees as blood squirted from his broken wrist.
I didn't move from my chair. I didn't even blink.
May you like
I leaned forward, looking down at the traitor sobbing on the floor.
“Where is my wife, Matteo?” I whispered, my voice cold enough to freeze the room. “Tell me where she is, or I’ll spend the next forty-eight hours peeling you apart piece by piece in front of your own family.”
