Chapter 8 - Victoria’s Iron Hand
By ten o’clock the following morning, the Presidential Suite of the Ritz-Carlton Boston smelled of fresh white lilies and vintage Virginia tobacco.
Victoria Moretti sat on a velvet armchair beside the floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping espresso from a delicate porcelain cup while two armed enforcers stood silently behind her.
At sixty-two, she was an imposing matriarch who possessed the elegance of European royalty and the vicious ruthlessness of a medieval tyrant.
When the double doors opened, I walked into the suite alone, having ordered Marcus to wait downstairs in the lobby.
Victoria didn't stand up; she merely lowered her cup onto the silver saucer with a delicate, calculated clink.
“You look tired, Adrian,” she said, her Italian accent sharp and dripping with cold condescension. “Chasing ghosts through the Massachusetts fog clearly doesn't agree with your complexion.”
“Call off your dogs, Mother,” I said without preamble, walking over to the fireplace and leaning against the marble mantel.
Victoria sighed theatrically, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.
“A mother tries to secure her family dynasty, and her own son greets her like an enemy,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Do you have any idea what the commission in Chicago is whispering about right now?”
“I don't give a damn about the commission.”
Victoria’s eyes narrowed into dangerous golden slits.
“They are saying that the great Adrian Moretti has gone soft over an ordinary suburban girl who ran away three years ago,” she hissed. “They are saying that two illegitimate Moretti heirs are currently being raised by a former federal prosecutor who put twelve of our associates into federal penitentiaries!”
“Julian Vance is legally married to Evelyn,” I stated coldly. “The children carry his name legally. There is no legitimate claim you can make without exposing our entire syndicate to federal scrutiny.”
Victoria let out a chilling, melodic laugh that sent shivers down my spine.
She picked up a thick legal envelope from the table and tossed it toward me.
It landed on the carpet at my feet.
“Read it,” she commanded.
I picked up the documents and flipped through the first few pages.
It was an emergency ex parte petition filed in the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court for genetic paternity determination and temporary physical custody.
Attached to the petition were affidavits signed by three corrupt state judges and a private investigator’s report detailing Evelyn's financial instability during her first six months in Boston.
“You bribed state officials to manufacture evidence of child neglect?” I growled, feeling the blood pounding in my temples.
“I did what was necessary to bring my grandchildren home,” Victoria said calmly, smoothing the fabric of her tailored silk trousers. “By Friday afternoon, state child protective services will arrive at the Vance residence with an armed escort of state troopers.”
“You think Julian Vance won't fight this?”
“Julian Vance is an arrogant Brahmin lawyer who plays by constitutional rules,” Victoria sneered. “By the time his emergency appeals reach the appellate bench, the children will already be on a private aircraft heading toward our compound in Palermo, Sicily.”
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Sicily.
Once the children were inside our fortified ancestral estate in the mountains of Palermo, no American court, federal agency, or foreign government could ever touch them.
They would be raised under armed guard, stripped of their mother, and molded into ruthless soldiers for the Moretti dynasty.
It was the exact terrifying fate my father had forced upon me when I was seven years old.
“You're not taking them,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
Victoria slowly rose from her chair, her regal posture towering despite her small frame.
“You forget who built this empire, Adrian,” she whispered back, taking two measured steps toward me until she was looking directly up into my face. “Your father held the gun, but I chose the targets. If you stand between me and my grandchildren, I will have the commission strip you of your title before the week is out.”
“Try it,” I dared her.
“You think Marcus and your Chicago soldiers will follow a man who betrays his own blood for a woman who despised him?” she smiled wickedly. “You are the boss only as long as you serve the family, Adrian. The moment you become a liability, you become a casualty.”
I stared down at the woman who gave me life, realizing with absolute clarity that there had never been an ounce of genuine maternal love in her heart.
She saw people only as assets, weapons, or corpses.
“You made one fatal mistake, Mother,” I said, stepping back toward the suite doors.
Victoria tilted her head slightly, an amused smirk playing on her crimson lips. “And what mistake is that, my dear son?”
“You assumed I came to Boston to save my pride.”
I gripped the brass door handle and looked back over my shoulder.
May you like
“I came here to save my soul. And if destroying you is what it takes to protect those children, I'll dismantle the Moretti syndicate with my bare hands.”
Before she could respond, I opened the heavy doors and slammed them shut behind me, leaving her enforcers reaching for their weapons as my voice echoed down the luxurious hotel corridor.
