Chapter 13 - The High Table’s Judgment
The sound of the brass doors slamming against the marble pillars echoed through the ballroom like two rifle shots.
The entire assembly of mobsters turned around in unison, over fifty handguns half-drawn beneath silk jackets.
Standing in the illuminated entrance was Vincent Rossi.
He walked down the center aisle alone, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, completely unfazed by the dozens of barrels trained on his chest.
His steps were heavy, measured, and terrifyingly calm.
“You speak very eloquently about dead women and broken children, Marco,” Vincent said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the massive hall.
The crowd parted before him like water before the prow of a battleship.
Capo Lucchese and Capo Moretti stood up from the head table, their eyes wide with disbelief.
“Vincent,” Lucchese barked, holding up a hand to stop the nervous guards from opening fire.
“You were summoned forty-eight hours ago.”
“You chose to ignore the council’s summons.”
“I didn't ignore anything, Carmine,” Vincent replied, stopping ten feet from the elevated stage where Marco stood frozen.
“I was simply busy uncovering the rot inside our own house.”
Marco quickly recovered his composure, forcing a sneer of righteous indignation onto his face.
“Look at him!” Marco shouted to the crowd, pointing an accusing finger at Vincent.
“Look at the paranoia in his eyes!”
“He shows up uninvited, unarmed, rambling about conspiracies while our streets burn!”
“Where is your son, Vincent?”
“Where is the heir you swore to present to the Five Families tonight?”
“You left him in that dungeon, didn't you?”
“Because you are too cowardly to let these honorable men see that the Rossi bloodline ends with you!”
Vincent did not lose his temper; he didn't raise his voice by even half an octave.
He simply turned his back on Marco and looked up at the council elders.
“Marco told you my son was a vegetable,” Vincent stated coldly.
“Marco told you my son could not walk.”
“He told you that because Marco’s entire survival depends on that little boy never speaking another word in his life.”
Vincent raised his right hand and snapped his fingers once.
From the rear corridor, the elevator doors opened once more.
A collective gasp ripped through the two hundred hardened criminals gathered in the room.
Walking through the entrance, her head held high with regal dignity, was Clara Vance.
And clutching her right hand, taking slow, deliberate, perfectly balanced steps across the polished marble floor, was Matteo Rossi.
The boy did not have a wheelchair.
He did not have leg braces.
He walked with the steady, measured determination of a warrior marching onto a field of honor.
The silence that fell over the ballroom was so complete that the rustle of Clara’s emerald gown sounded like breaking waves.
Marco’s face drained of every drop of color.
His knees went weak, his hand trembling uncontrollably inside his tuxedo pocket.
“No...” Marco whispered under his breath, his voice catching in his throat.
“That is... that is impossible.”
Matteo did not look at the armed guards.
He did not look at the glittering chandeliers or the lavish banquet tables.
He kept his eyes locked onto Marco Bellini’s pale, sweat-slicked face as he approached the front of the stage.
Every step the eight-year-old child took was a direct slap across the face of the traitor who had orchestrated his mother’s murder.
When Matteo reached his father’s side, he let go of Clara’s hand.
He stood entirely on his own two feet, looking up at the high council.
“I can walk,” Matteo said, his voice clear, youthful, and utterly fearless.
The sound of the boy’s voice sent a shockwave through the room.
Old men who had served Vincent’s father crossed themselves in superstitious awe.
“Matteo...” Carmine Lucchese stammered, stepping down from the elevated platform with genuine tears in his aged eyes.
“God in heaven... you are speaking.”
“I am speaking,” Matteo confirmed, nodding solemnly to the old capo.
May you like
Then, Matteo raised his small arm and pointed his finger directly at Marco Bellini’s chest.
“And I came here to tell you that Uncle Marco killed my mother.”
