Chapter 12 - The Devil’s Banquet
The Grand Continental Hotel’s subterranean banquet hall had once been an opulent speakeasy during the height of 1920s Prohibition.
Lined with dark mahogany paneling, gold-leaf molding, and arched brick ceilings, the room reeked of expensive cigars, dry aged scotch, and the unmistakable tension of twenty armed men waiting for an excuse to draw blood.
At the far end of the banquet table sat Don Carmine Moretti, a silver-haired patriarch of seventy years with cold, reptilian gray eyes and fingers heavy with gold signet rings.
Flanking him were the grim, weathered leaders of the regional syndicates, their personal bodyguards standing rigidly against the perimeter walls with hands buried beneath their tailored overcoats.
When the heavy double oak doors swung open, every conversation in the room abruptly died.
Dante Bellini walked in with slow, measured steps, radiating absolute, predatory dominance.
He wore an immaculate midnight-blue three-piece suit, his hands resting easily inside his trouser pockets, completely unarmed.
Dean Briggs followed one step behind his right shoulder, wearing a simple black suit, his face an unreadable slab of granite.
And walking beside Dante, her heels clicking with sharp, hypnotic cadence against the parquet floor, was Ava Brooks.
She wore a floor-length emerald silk evening gown with an open back and a daring slit down the left leg, her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon secured by a single gold hairpin.
Carmine Moretti’s eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure disdain as he leaned forward over his linen napkin.
"Dante," Moretti rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel beneath a heavy boot.
"You were summoned to answer for your crimes before the Commission. You were not invited to bring your cabaret entertainment."
A few of the enforcers along the wall smirked, but Ava didn't flinch.
She pulled out the vacant high-backed chair directly opposite Moretti and sat down with fluid, regal grace.
She crossed her legs, resting her chin on her hand, and looked at Moretti with the amused curiosity of a scientist observing an insect beneath a lens.
"Cabaret entertainment, Don Moretti?" Ava remarked, her voice musical and completely devoid of fear.
"That’s rather uncharitable considering that thirty minutes ago, my stage mechanics were the only reason Dante didn't hand the federal grand jury your personal offshore account numbers along with Arthur Vance’s."
The smirks on the enforcers' faces vanished instantly.
Moretti’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping against the edge of the mahogany table.
"The woman speaks out of turn, Dante," Moretti warned, his voice dropping into a lethal, guttural register.
"Silence your pet, or my men will remove her tongue before we begin the vote."
Before Moretti’s lead enforcer could take a single step forward, Dante moved.
His movement was so fast, so blindingly violent, that the eye could barely track it.
Dante reached across the table, seized the heavy silver wine decanter, and shattered it against the edge of the mahogany board.
With a single, lightning-fast thrust, he drove the jagged glass neck an inch deep into the wood between Moretti’s splayed fingers, pinning the old man’s sleeve to the table.
Every bodyguard in the room drew their weapons simultaneously, twenty slides racking back in a deafening, metallic chorus of lethal intent.
Dean Briggs didn't draw a gun; he simply stepped forward, his body shielding Ava, a small electronic detonator resting openly in his palm, his thumb pressed firmly against the dead-man switch.
"Nobody moves," Dean barked, his voice vibrating through the room with the force of an oncoming train.
"There are two hundred pounds of industrial C4 packed into the sub-floor ventilation shafts beneath this room. You twitch your fingers, and we all meet Salvatore in hell tonight."
The room froze into an agonizing, breathless standoff.
Dante didn't look at the guns pointed at his skull.
He remained leaned over the table, his scarred face inches from Carmine Moretti’s sweating forehead, his amber eyes burning with unadulterated hellfire.
"You listen to me very carefully, Carmine," Dante whispered, his voice terrifying in its absolute calmness.
"Arthur Vance sang for three hours to the federal prosecutors before they transferred him to a secure facility. He gave up the routing numbers, the drop points, and the names of the seven judges on your personal payroll."
Moretti swallowed hard, his gray eyes darting toward the jagged glass still vibrating half an inch from his fingers.
"You bluff, Dante," Moretti hissed, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his terror.
"If you had that kind of leverage, you would have had the FBI raid this room an hour ago."
"He doesn't want the FBI to take your empire, Don Moretti," Ava chimed in softly from her seat, opening a small gold compact mirror and casually checking her lipstick.
"Dante is an old-school businessman. He prefers hostile takeovers conducted in person."
Ava snapped the compact shut with a sharp, echoing clack.
"And as for your security detail in the hallway outside..."
Ava pointed her slender finger toward the heavy oak doors.
May you like
"I suggest you check your watch, Don Moretti. Because right about now, your trusted lieutenant, Sal Valenti, has realized that every single communication relay in this hotel has been redirected to my private receiver."
As if on cue, the lights in the grand chandelier overhead flickered once, twice, and then plunged the banquet hall into deep, crimson emergency illumination.
