Chapter 8 - The Viper’s Nest
The silence that followed Sophie’s remark was so absolute that the ticking of a grandfather clock at the end of the hall sounded like a hammer blow.
One of the elderly capos standing behind Victor—a man named Salvatore with a scarred cheek—took a half-step forward, his hand twitching toward his jacket. "Watch your tongue, girl. You're standing in Victor Moretti’s house, not a Parisian café."
Alessandro didn't flinch. He simply shifted his weight, his dark eyes locking onto Salvatore with such lethal intensity that the older man instinctively stepped back.
"She speaks for me, Salvatore," Alessandro said softly, his voice cutting through the tension like a razor. "And if anyone in this room has a problem with my future wife, they can take it up with me across the table tonight."
Victor stared at Sophie for a long, agonizing moment, searching her face for any sign of weakness or recognition. Then, slowly, a tight, humorless smile stretched across his weathered face.
"Impressive," Victor chuckled, though his eyes remained dead and calculating. "Spunky. Your father always did have a talent for breeding expensive problems, Miss Dubois. Come inside. Dinner is served in the main dining hall. Our guest from Paris has already arrived."
Sophie felt a cold chill wash over her. Our guest from Paris.
Monsieur Laurent.
As they walked down the vaulted corridor toward the grand dining room, Sophie kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, her hand resting securely in the crook of Alessandro’s arm. The mansion was breathtaking—oil paintings of European landscapes hung on wood-paneled walls, crystal chandeliers cast shimmering patterns across Persian rugs, and armed guards stood quietly at every intersection.
They entered the private dining hall. A long mahogany table was set for eight people, laden with silver candelabras, crystal stemware, and porcelain plates. Seated near the head of the table, sipping a glass of white burgundy with nervous energy, was Monsieur Laurent.
The maître d' looked entirely out of place without his black apron and slicked-back restaurant demeanor. In a sharp charcoal suit, he looked like a terrified accountant trapped in a den of wolves.
When Laurent looked up and saw Sophie walking into the room on Alessandro Moretti’s arm, wearing a designer gown and a multi-million-dollar ring, his wine glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp crash.
"S-Sophie?" Laurent stammered, scrambling half out of his chair before catching himself.
Every head at the table snapped toward Laurent, then back to Sophie.
"You know the girl, Laurent?" Victor asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr as he took his seat at the head of the table.
Laurent’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He looked from Victor to Alessandro, whose dark eyes were fixed on him like a hawk circling a field mouse.
"I... of course," Laurent stammered, wiping his sweaty palms on his napkin. "She... she worked at my restaurant in Manhattan. As a waitress. Just a girl off the street."
A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the room. Salvatore grinned, leaning forward across the table. "A waitress? The future Mrs. Moretti is a waitress from a Midtown bistro? What kind of game are you playing, Alessandro?"
Alessandro didn't blink. He pulled out a chair for Sophie, seated her gracefully, and then took his own seat directly opposite Victor.
"She was working undercover, Salvatore," Alessandro said smoothly, his voice echoing in the quiet hall. "Investigating the people who laundered money through our hospitality fronts. People like Monsieur Laurent here, who has been skimming thirty percent of the nightly receipts and funneling them into offshore accounts controlled by my dear uncle."
Laurent shrieked, half-rising from his chair. "That's a lie! Don Moretti, he's lying! I've been loyal to you for ten years!"
"Shut up, Laurent," Victor snarled, his face twisting into a mask of pure fury. He slammed his fist down on the mahogany table, rattling the crystal stemware. He glared across at Alessandro. "You think you can waltz in here with a waitress and a pack of lies to stage a coup? This is my family! These men answer to me!"
May you like
"They answered to you when you had the money and the protection, Uncle," Alessandro said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the worn leather ledger belonging to Julien Dubois, and tossed it casually onto the center of the mahogany table, right next to the roast pheasant. "And they answered to you when you thought Julien Dubois’s ledger was destroyed. But as of two hours ago, every offshore account, every bribe ledger, and every wire transfer linking your faction to federal prosecutors has been uploaded to a secure server programmed to release automatically if my heart stops beating."
Victor stared at the ledger on the table as if it were a live grenade. The color drained entirely from his face.
