Chapter 28 - The Traitor in the Inner Circle
The heavy mahogany doors of the Moretti estate's war room slammed open against the walls. Gabriel strode into the room like an avenging angel, his coat billowing behind him, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the center of the mahogany table where the top capos of the Chicago syndicate were huddled in urgent discussion.
Don Vitucci stood at the head of the table, his gnarled hands gripping the edge of the wood so tightly his knuckles were stark white. Around him, the other capos murmured nervously, their eyes darting toward the heavy arsenal of weapons resting against the walls.
"The redoubts were compromised from the inside," Gabriel announced, his voice cutting through the murmurs with the lethal precision of a guillotine blade. He stopped six feet from the table, his hand resting casually over the grip of his sidearm. "The drainage blueprints were classified. Only three men in this room had the master encryption keys to the Joliet facility: Dante, myself... and the head of coalition logistics."
All eyes turned instantly toward the far end of the table, where Marcus Rossi—one of Vitucci’s oldest and most trusted lieutenants—sat sweating profusely under the harsh chandelier light. Rossi’s fingers twitched nervously against the wooden armrest, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
"Wait a minute, Gabriel," Vitucci rasped, holding up a trembling hand as he glared at Rossi. "You think Rossi sold out the family? The boy’s been with us for twenty years—"
"Ask him who wired thirty million dollars into a Swiss offshore account this morning," Dante interrupted, stepping into the room and tossing a heavy encrypted laptop onto the center of the table. The screen lit up with bank transfer records bearing Rossi's digital signature, routed directly through a shell company in Montreal.
Rossi shrank back in his chair, his face turning the color of ash. He swallowed hard, trying to maintain a facade of defiance. "You... you don't understand," Rossi stammered, his voice cracking. "The Council of Quebec... they promised us immunity. They said the Moretti era was over. They said if we handed over the girl and her mother, Chicago would be spared a total war."
Gabriel didn't yell. He didn't curse. He simply walked slowly around the table, his boots clicking softly against the polished oak floor, his dark gaze never leaving Rossi's terrified eyes.
When he reached Rossi's chair, Gabriel placed both hands on the backrest, leaning in close until his lips were inches from the traitor's ear.
"You traded my family for a paycheck," Gabriel whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
Before Rossi could draw another breath, Gabriel drew his pistol, pressed the barrel directly beneath Rossi’s chin, and pulled the trigger.
The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed off the high timbered ceilings of the war room. Rossi slumped sideways, his lifeless body sliding out of the chair and hitting the Persian rug with a dull thud. A spreading pool of dark crimson began to soak into the fibers of the rug.
The other capos sat frozen in absolute, terrified silence, not a single man daring to move or speak.
Gabriel stepped back, wiping a stray speck of ash from his cuff. He looked around the table, his gaze sweeping over every capo in the room with the absolute, undisputed authority of an apex predator.
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"The traitor is dealt with," Gabriel said, his voice ringing with cold, absolute finality. "Now, we take our war across the border. Saddle the private fleet. We’re flying to Montreal tonight."
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