Chapter 4 - The Serpent at the Table
By Thursday afternoon, the fog had cleared, leaving the estate bathed in the crisp, golden light of late October.
The grand dining room was prepared for a family summit. A massive oak table was set with sterling silver, crystal wine glasses, and a spread of roasted meats prepared by the estate's staff.
Carmine Moretti sat at the head of the table, looking like a silver-haired patriarch in his five-thousand-dollar tailored suit. Beside him sat two of his senior lieutenants—broad, thick-necked men with shoulder holsters bulging beneath their jackets.
Gabriel sat at the opposite end of the table in his motorized wheelchair. He wore a sharp black suit, his dark hair combed back, his face unreadable.
I stood three paces behind Gabriel’s right shoulder, dressed in my gray medical scrubs, holding a tray with his water pitcher and a small plastic cup containing his "afternoon medication"—which was currently two sugar pills.
"You look pale, Gabriel," Carmine said, slicing into his steak with deliberate slowness. "The sniper attack on Tuesday... it was a tragedy. A sign that the streets no longer respect the Moretti name."
"The streets respect what they fear, Uncle," Gabriel replied, his voice calm, smooth as silk.
"They don't fear a man who cannot stand to defend his own gates," Carmine said, setting his knife down with a loud clack against the china. "The commission met last night in Queens. They are concerned. They feel a family cannot be led from a wheelchair."
Vincent Kane, standing against the wall near the sideboard, placed a hand casually inside his jacket.
Gabriel raised a single finger, stopping Vincent from moving. "And what did you tell the commission, Carmine?"
"I told them I would step in as acting Don," Carmine said, pulling a thick manila folder from his leather briefcase and sliding it across the polished oak table. "I have prepared the legal power of attorney papers and the transfer of operational control for the shipping line. You sign them today, Gabriel. You retire to your estate, keep your medical staff, and live out your days in peace."
Carmine shot a brief, dismissive glance at me. "The nurse can take care of your physical needs. My men will handle the business."
Gabriel didn't reach for the folder. He looked at me over his shoulder. "Chloe. What do you think?"
Carmine’s brow furrowed in immediate irritation. "Why are you asking the servant?"
I stepped forward, setting my silver tray onto the edge of the mahogany table. I looked down at the legal documents in the folder.
"Well, Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice sweet and bright as a morning bell. "I'm not an attorney, but my memory for details is pretty sharp. For instance, I remember seeing this exact notary stamp on a document in Gabriel’s study three weeks ago."
Carmine’s face hardened. "Nonsense."
"It's not nonsense," I said, reaching into my apron pocket and pulling out my cheap, cracked-screen smartphone. "I take photos of all official documents brought into Gabriel’s room to log visitor traffic. See?"
I tapped the screen, holding the phone out so Carmine’s two lieutenants could see the clear digital image.
"This is the property deed for the Red Hook shipping docks," I continued, sliding my finger across the glass. "Signed by Gabriel on October 12th. Except on October 12th, Gabriel was in the intensive care unit at Mount Sinai recovering from a spinal infection. I have the hospital wristband right here in my pocket."
The room went dead silent.
Carmine’s lieutenants looked from the phone screen to Carmine, their eyes flickering with sudden, dangerous doubt.
"You dare accuse me of forgery in front of my own men?" Carmine hissed, his face turning an ugly shade of purple.
"I'm not accusing you of forgery, Uncle Carmine," I said, giving him a brilliant, fake smile. "I'm accusing you of bank fraud, identity theft, and grand larceny. The wire transfer of six million dollars to the shell company in Zurich yesterday afternoon was signed with Gabriel’s electronic key—a key that was downloaded from his study computer during your Thursday visit at 9:05 PM."
Carmine stood up so fast his heavy dining chair fell backward, crashing onto the hardwood floor.
"Grab the girl!" Carmine screamed to his men.
Before the two lieutenants could even reach for their weapons, Gabriel’s hand moved.
He didn't use a gun.
He reached out, grabbed the heavy sterling-silver wine bucket sitting beside his plate, and hurled it across the table with terrifying speed and force.
The silver bucket struck Carmine’s lead lieutenant square in the side of the head with a sickening crack. The man went down like a log, out cold before he hit the floor.
At the same instant, Vincent drew his pistol and pointed it directly at the second lieutenant’s forehead.
"Move a finger," Vincent growled, "and I'll paint the wall behind you."
Carmine stood frozen at the head of the table, his chest heaving, his silver hair disheveled, staring at Gabriel in absolute shock.
Gabriel slowly leaned forward in his wheelchair. The lethargy, the weakness, the hazy confusion that had haunted him for six months was gone. His eyes were razor-sharp, flashing with pure, unadulterated dominance.
"You thought I was dying, Carmine," Gabriel said, his voice echoing through the massive dining room like a tolling bell. "You thought my mind was rotting away under your slow poisons."
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Gabriel reached down, grabbed the thick manila folder of legal papers, and ripped it in half with a single, brutal twist of his hands. He tossed the shredded paper into Carmine’s face.
"Get out of my house," Gabriel whispered. "And tell the commission that if they want my throne, they can come take it from me themselves."
