Chapter 5 - The Snake at the Table
The reconciliation between father and son was sacred, but in the Moretti world, grief was a luxury that had to be purchased with blood.
Dominic rose from the floor twenty minutes later, his face transformed. The tears were gone, wiped away with a linen handkerchief, replaced by an expression of cold, terrifying, absolute butchery. The grief hadn't disappeared; it had crystallized into pure, lethal purpose.
He picked Leo up and set him gently on the table, wiping the boy's cheeks with his thumbs.
"Leo," Dominic said, his voice calm, steady, and utterly unbreakable. "You were the bravest boy in the world today. You protected your mother's memory, and you protected this family. From this second on, you never have to be afraid of him again. Do you hear me?"
Leo nodded slowly, his small chest hiccuping with fading sobs. "Are you going to send him away, Daddy?"
"I am going to handle it," Dominic said softly, kissing Leo’s forehead. "Nobody will ever hurt you again."
Dominic turned his sharp gaze to me. For the first time since I had stepped into this mansion three months ago, he looked at me not as a subordinate, not as a maid, but as an equal. There was respect in his eyes—and something much deeper, a fierce, protective heat that made my heart stutter in my chest.
"Isabella," he said, stepping toward me. He reached out and gently took my bruised wrist in his hand. His touch was unbelievably light, almost reverent, his calloused thumb tracing the perimeter of the purple marks Antonio had left behind. "He will pay for every mark on your skin. I swear that to you on my life."
"Dominic, be careful," I breathed, my pulse fluttering beneath his thumb. "He has men here. If he suspects you know—"
"He doesn't suspect," Dominic replied, his voice dropping into that chilling, tactical register. "Antonio thinks I am blind. He thinks I am a grieving widower blinded by rage toward outside phantoms. He orchestrated last night’s dock raid to create a distraction, to make it look like the Valentis are moving on Boston so he could consolidate power under the guise of 'protecting' our northern territory."
Dominic dropped my hand and walked toward the window, looking down at the courtyard where Antonio’s guards were smoking near their vehicles.
"Tonight is the Commission dinner," Dominic murmured. "Twelve capos. The entire governing body of the New England syndicate will sit at my dining table at eight o'clock. Antonio expects me to declare war on New York. Instead, I am going to hold court."
He turned back to face me, his gray eyes burning with strategic brilliance.
"I need you tonight, Isabella."
"Me?" I blinked in surprise. "Dominic, I'm just a maid."
"You are the woman who brought my son back from the dead," he countered fiercely, closing the distance between us once more. "And you are the only person in this house I trust with my life. Antonio knows you saw the scar. He knows you saw him reach for his tie. He will be watching you to see if you spoke to me. I need you to serve the head table tonight. I need you to play the obedient, terrified servant."
"Why?"
"Because when a snake thinks his prey is paralyzed by fear," Dominic whispered, a dark, lethal smile touching his lips, "he strikes carelessly. And that is when you cut off his head."
***
Eight o'clock arrived with the solemnity of a funeral mass.
The grand dining room of the Moretti mansion was bathed in the warm, deceptive glow of crystal chandeliers and flickering taper candles. The fifty-foot mahogany banquet table was laid with solid silver cutlery, bone china, and crystal stemware.
Twelve men in bespoke three-piece suits sat around the perimeter. These were the capos of New England—men who controlled the shipping lanes, the construction unions, the gambling rings, and the narcotics pipelines from Maine to Rhode Island.
At the head of the table sat Dominic Moretti, looking every bit the sovereign emperor of an underworld dynasty.
To his immediate right sat Antonio, sporting a crisp, brand-new shirt, sipping an eighty-year-old vintage scotch as if he owned the very air in the room.
I wore my formal black uniform, my hair pinned neatly into a chignon, a crisp white lace apron tied around my waist. My heart was pounding like a sledgehammer against my ribs, but my hands remained steady as I moved down the table, pouring wine from a heavy silver decanter.
"The dock strike last night was a disgrace, Dominic," Antonio proclaimed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, commanding the attention of the assembled captains. "Thirty men lost at the south gates. The Valentis are spitting on the Moretti name. If your father were alive, Boston would already be burning Manhattan to the ground."
Several capos nodded in low, rumbling agreement. The tension in the room was palpable, thick with the scent of roasted lamb, expensive tobacco, and impending violence.
Dominic didn't react. He sliced into his rare steak with slow, agonizing precision, the silver knife screeching faintly against the porcelain.
"My father is dead, Antonio," Dominic said evenly, chewing deliberately before looking up. "And I do not burn cities until I know exactly who lit the match."
"The evidence is clear!" Antonio insisted, slamming his palm against the mahogany. "The tactical gear recovered from the dead men carried Valenti serial numbers. What more proof do you need? Or has the grief of losing Elena made you too soft to lead this family?"
The entire room went dead silent.
Mentioning the late Donna Moretti at an open Commission table was a line nobody crossed. Even the hardened killers around the table shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
I moved forward, stepping between Dominic and Antonio to refill Antonio’s wine glass.
As I tipped the decanter, my sleeve shifted slightly, exposing the dark, ugly purple bruises Antonio had left on my wrist that morning.
Antonio noticed.
A cruel, mocking smile curled his lips. He leaned slightly toward me, lowering his voice so only Dominic and I could hear: "Careful with that vintage, sweetheart. You wouldn't want to ruin another fine garment. Accidents can be so... fatal in this house."
Dominic set his fork down.
The clatter of silver against china sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
"Speaking of Elena," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm, conversational, almost pleasant. "I was looking through her personal safety deposit box this afternoon, Antonio. In the vault beneath the South Boston bank."
Antonio froze. His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his wine glass. "Is that so? Finding sentimental trinkets to weep over?"
"Not trinkets," Dominic said smoothly, leaning back in his high-backed leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Ledgers. Encrypted thumb drives. It turns out my late wife was far more observant than anyone gave her credit for. She kept detailed records of offshore wire transfers. Hundreds of millions of dollars skimmed from our port operations over the last five years, rerouted through shell corporations in the Cayman Islands."
The air in the dining hall evaporated. The capos around the table stopped eating.
Antonio’s smile began to slip, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Dominic, what nonsense is this? This meeting is about the docks—"
"The money was funneled to an account registered under the name *Vipera*," Dominic continued, his voice rising, cutting through the silence like an executioner's broadsword. "The Latin word for viper. Or... serpent."
Dominic turned his head slowly, fixing his gray eyes directly on his uncle.
"Elena confronted the thief at the beach house three years ago," Dominic whispered, every syllable ringing with pure, unadulterated venom. "She told him she was bringing the ledgers to me. And that is why he murdered her. Isn't that right, Antonio?"
Antonio’s face drained of every drop of color. He shoved his chair back from the table, the wooden legs screeching horribly against the marble floor.
"Are you insane?!" Antonio roared, his voice cracking with panic as he looked around at the other capos. "You're accusing me? Your own blood? Because of fairy tales and missing money? Capos, look at him! Your Don has lost his mind! He’s unhinged!"
None of the capos moved.
None of them spoke.
"Isabella," Dominic commanded softly, never taking his eyes off his uncle. "Show them."
I stepped back from the table, reached into the pocket of my white apron, and pulled out the folded piece of butcher paper. I laid it flat in the center of the table under the brilliant chandelier light.
The black serpent.
The ruby eyes.
The lightning-bolt scar.
"My son drew this this morning," Dominic said, the words falling like iron anvils upon the room. "Leo was six years old when he watched his mother bleed out on the floor. For three years, he carried that horror in silence because he thought I would hate him for surviving. But today, he told me what he saw."
Dominic rose to his feet.
He seemed to expand, his massive frame dominating the entire room, radiating the terrifying authority of an apex predator closing in for the kill.
"Check his chest," Dominic ordered his enforcers.
"Don't touch me!" Antonio screamed, lunging backward toward his private bodyguards standing near the archway.
He reached inside his coat, pulling a snub-nosed .38 revolver from his shoulder holster.
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"Down!" Dominic roared, throwing his body across the table, knocking me to the marble floor and covering me with his massive frame just as Antonio pulled the trigger.
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