Chapter 12 - The Poisoned Feast
The Grand Atlantic Hotel rose forty stories above the boardwalk like a towering monument to corrupt luxury.
The penthouse ballroom on the top floor was illuminated by three massive crystal chandeliers imported from Venice.
Over two hundred made men, capos, and syndicate consiglieres filled the opulent space, their tailored tuxedos concealing snub-nosed revolvers and ceramic blades.
A twelve-piece jazz orchestra played softly on the elevated stage, competing with the clinking of crystal champagne flutes and the murmur of backroom deals.
At the center of the head banquet table sat Carmine Lucchese and Antonio Moretti, their wrinkled faces stone-cold beneath the chandelier light.
Marco Bellini moved through the crowd like a conquering hero, clapping underbosses on the shoulder and kissing the wives of senior capos on both cheeks.
He wore a midnight-blue velvet tuxedo, the silver viper signet ring gleaming conspicuously under the spotlight.
Every few minutes, Marco’s fingers drifted toward the inner pocket of his jacket, tapping the sleek plastic casing of his encrypted mobile detonator.
Down in the subterranean garage, three hundred feet below the ballroom floor, Dante and two combat engineers had just finished their work.
Dante was crouched beneath the wheel well of an unmarked black van packed with twenty bricks of C-4.
His tactical pliers snipped the third radio wire with surgical precision, replacing it with a localized radio jammer that looped back to his wrist console.
“Charges bypassed, Boss,” Dante whispered into his throat microphone.
“The detonator in Marco’s pocket is completely dead.”
“He is holding a toy.”
“Hold your perimeter, Dante,” Vincent’s voice crackled through the earpiece.
“Do not engage until you hear the signal.”
Outside the service entrance of the hotel, a nondescript medical transport van backed into the private loading dock.
The rear doors swung open, and Clara stepped out first, wearing an elegant, floor-length emerald dress that concealed a Kevlar vest beneath the silk.
She reached inside the van and helped Matteo down onto the concrete platform.
The boy wore a bespoke miniature charcoal suit that mirrored his father’s tailoring down to the silver cuff links.
He held Clara’s hand tightly, his knuckles pale, but his posture was upright, his jaw locked in fierce concentration.
Vincent stepped out behind them, adjusting the lapels of his black tuxedo jacket.
The scar on his forearm throbbed beneath the bandage, but his face was completely impassive.
“How are your legs feeling, champion?” Vincent asked, kneeling down to straighten his son’s silk necktie.
“Like pins and needles,” Matteo whispered truthfully.
“The nerves are waking up,” Clara assured the boy, smoothing his dark hair.
“Focus on the rhythm of my breathing.”
“Remember what we did in the bedroom at three in the morning.”
“In.”
Matteo took a deep breath through his small nose.
“Out,” Clara commanded softly.
The boy exhaled, the trembling in his knees settling into solid stillness.
“I am ready, Papa,” Matteo said.
Vincent rose to his full height, turning toward the private express elevator that led directly to the top floor.
“Stay two steps behind me until the doors open,” Vincent instructed them.
“When I tell you to speak, Matteo, you look Marco Bellini straight in his lying eyes and you tell the council what happened on that road.”
The three of them stepped into the mirrored elevator cab.
Vincent inserted a golden master key into the control panel, pressing the button for the penthouse ballroom.
The elevator climbed smoothly, sixty miles an hour, leaving the noise of the city streets far below.
Behind the bronze doors on the top floor, Marco Bellini was just stepping up to the silver podium in the center of the stage.
He tapped the microphone with his silver signet ring, the sharp thud silencing the jazz band and cutting through the chatter of the room.
“Brothers of the Commission,” Marco announced, his voice carrying the deep, resonant cadence of a seasoned politician.
“Capos of the Five Families.”
“We gather tonight under a shadow of profound tragedy.”
“For fourteen months, the Rossi throne has been occupied by a ghost.”
“Vincent Rossi has locked himself away in grief, abandoning the ports, ignoring the council, and neglecting the sacred duties of our brotherhood.”
“Worst of all, he has hidden his son away from us.”
“He has kept Matteo trapped in darkness, hiding the tragic reality that the Rossi bloodline has been rendered permanently incapable of rule.”
A murmur of uneasy agreement rippled through the older capos at the front tables.
Carmine Lucchese leaned forward, his heavy brows furrowing with deep skepticism.
“Are you calling for a formal vote of no confidence, Marco?” Lucchese demanded.
“I am calling for salvation,” Marco declared passionately, beating his fist against his breast.
“I loved Elena like my own sister.”
“I love Matteo like my own flesh.”
“It breaks my heart to say this, but the boy is a vegetable.”
“He cannot speak.”
“He cannot walk.”
“He cannot even recognize his own family.”
“We cannot let our empire be dragged into ruin by sentimentality!”
“I move that the council declare Vincent Rossi unfit to rule.”
“I move that I be named regent of the Rossi territory until such time as a worthy successor can be crowned!”
Marco looked across the ballroom, watching several influential capos begin to nod their heads in grim acquiescence.
He reached his hand into his tuxedo pocket, his thumb resting lightly on the red activation toggle of his detonator.
May you like
He was ready to burn the house down the moment the first objection was raised.
Then, the heavy brass double doors at the back of the ballroom blew open with the force of a hurricane.
