Chapter 7 - The Trap at the Grand Opera House
Three days after the warehouse fire, Palermo was a powder keg ready to explode. Rumors of an impending underworld summit spread through the city like wildfire. According to Enzo’s intelligence network, Salvatore Lucchesi had requested a neutral meeting at the historic Teatro Massimo opera house to negotiate terms of peace. Liam knew it was a trap, but in the mafia world, refusing an invitation was a sign of weakness that could turn all neutral families against him.
"You aren't going alone," Mary said firmly, standing by the study door as Liam adjusted his black silk tie in the mirror. "It's a trap, Liam. If you walk in there without leverage, Lucchesi will ambush you."
"Exactly," Liam replied smoothly, turning to face her with a faint, dangerous smile. "Which is why you are coming with me."
Mary blinked in surprise. "Me? As a peace offering?"
"As my legal co-owner of the Salvatore shipping assets," Liam corrected, walking over and handing her a sleek, tailored black evening gown that had somehow been delivered to her room that afternoon. "Under Sicilian charter law, any corporate restructuring requires the physical signature of all bloodline heirs. Lucchesi wants to force me to sign away our port access tonight at gunpoint. But if you are there holding the original ledger, he can't touch us without violating the ancient council codes."
An hour later, a sleek black limousine pulled up in front of the magnificent neoclassical Teatro Massimo. The grand marble steps were bathed in golden light, but the majestic opera house was entirely deserted save for armed guards stationed at every stone column. Liam offered his arm, and Mary took it, her hand resting firmly against his solid forearm. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her steps remained steady.
Inside, the grand auditorium was pitch black except for a single spotlight illuminating a mahogany table set up in the center of the empty orchestra stalls. Waiting for them was Salvatore Lucchesi—a heavy-set, silver-haired man with cold, calculating eyes—flanked by four armed bodyguards.
"Well, well," Lucchesi sneered, stepping forward into the light. "The stray cat from Rome actually showed up. And she brought her stray dog with her."
"Watch your tongue, Salvatore," Liam warned, his voice dangerously low as he pulled out a chair for Mary and motioned for her to sit. "We are here to discuss terms, not manners."
"Terms are simple," Lucchesi laughed, resting his hands on the table. "You sign over the North Harbor docks, Liam, and your little Roman cousin gets a safe, permanent flight back to Rome tomorrow morning. Refuse, and this theater becomes your tomb."
Mary didn't wait for Liam to answer. She reached into her handbag, pulled out the heavy leather ledger, and slammed it onto the mahogany table with a sharp crack that echoed through the empty opera house.
"Under Article 4 of the Palermo Charter," Mary declared, her voice ringing clear and strong through the vast auditorium, "no shipping asset can be transferred without a unanimous vote of all living bloodline heirs. And as a registered Salvatore heir, my vote is no."
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Lucchesi’s face twisted in fury as he reached inside his jacket for a concealed pistol. But before his hand could clear his holster, the heavy steel doors at the back of the theater burst open. Red laser sights danced across the chests of Lucchesi’s bodyguards, cast by a dozen elite Salvatore marksmen positioned in the upper gallery.
"Drop your weapon, Salvatore," Liam commanded, his hand resting calmly on the grip of his own concealed firearm. "The game is over."
