Chapter 8 - The Serpent at the Table
The private executive dining room on the fiftieth floor smelled of expensive cigars, dry vermouth, and barely restrained violence.
A twenty-foot table of polished walnut stretched across the room, set with crystal glassware and silver cutlery that nobody had touched.
On the northern side of the room stood eight of Dante’s elite operators, their jackets unbuttoned, their right hands resting near the holsters beneath their armpits.
On the opposite side stood six men in heavy leather coats, their faces scarred, their eyes darting nervously around the security cameras mounted in the ceiling.
And at the head of the southern end of the table sat Silvio Moretti.
My uncle.
He was in his late fifties, his silver hair slicked back tightly against a skull that looked too narrow for his body.
He wore a charcoal suit that was expensive but lacked the effortless elegance of Dante’s bespoke tailoring.
His eyes were small, dark, and predatory, set deep beneath protruding brow ridges that gave him the appearance of a hunting hawk.
In his left hand, he rolled a heavy gold lighter back and forth across his knuckles with a rhythmic, irritating metallic click.
When the elevator doors parted and Dante walked into the room with my arm tucked firmly into his, Silvio’s hand stopped instantly.
The lighter froze between his fingers.
Silvio’s gaze bypassed Dante entirely and locked onto my face.
I felt the blood drain from my cheeks, but I forced my spine straight.
I refused to look down.
I remembered the photograph on Dante’s desk.
I remembered my mother’s exhausted, hollow eyes as she coughed blood into paper towels in our cold basement.
This was the man who had driven her there.
The thought hit me with the force of an adrenaline injection, burning away the last remnants of my fear and replacing it with pure, crystalline hatred.
Silvio slowly rose to his feet.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice carrying the harsh, gravelly accent of the South Side streets. “The rumors were true. Lorenzo Richi’s whelp really did find a stray rat in the gutter.”
Dante’s arm beneath mine didn't flinch.
He guided me smoothly to the head of the table, pulling out the heavy leather chair for me before taking his own seat at the apex.
“You are speaking to my wife, Silvio,” Dante said, his voice dropping into that chilling, resonant register that commanded the room. “Mind your tongue, or I will have Marco remove it and serve it to your driver.”
Silvio let out a dry, barking laugh that held no humor.
“Your wife? You think a scrap of paper from a bought priest changes the blood in her veins?”
He took two steps toward our side of the table, his men tensing behind him.
“She is an Antonio Moretti bastard. Her mother stole twenty million dollars from the family treasury when she ran like a dog in ninety-nine. That girl belongs to the Moretti syndicate. Her debts belong to me. Her life belongs to me.”
“My mother stole nothing!” I snapped, my voice cutting through the men's posturing like a razor blade.
The room went dead silent.
Silvio’s eyes snapped to mine, surprised by the venom in my tone.
“My mother scrubbed toilets and sewed buttons for twenty-five years to keep me away from your filth,” I continued, leaning forward, my hands resting flat on the mahogany table. “She died with less than a hundred dollars in her checking account. If there was twenty million dollars, Silvio, you swallowed it yourself after you put a bullet in my father’s spine.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Silvio’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of crimson.
A vein at his temple bulged dangerously.
“You little bitch,” he hissed, taking another step forward, his hand drifting toward his waistband.
Before his fingers could touch the fabric of his jacket, six metallic clicks echoed through the room in terrifying unison.
Dante’s guards raised their weapons, red laser sights painting glowing dots across Silvio’s chest and forehead.
Dante didn't even draw his weapon.
He simply picked up a crystal water glass, took a measured sip, and set it down with a delicate chime against the wood.
“Move your hand another half-inch, Silvio,” Dante whispered, his voice silky and absolute. “And your men will have to carry your remains out in plastic grocery bags.”
Silvio froze, the red laser dots dancing across the bridge of his nose.
He slowly withdrew his hand, raising both palms into the air with a venomous smirk.
“You think you won this round, Dante?” Silvio whispered, looking between the two of us. “You think marrying the ghost’s daughter gives you the North Side docks? The Commission won't ratify this. The families in New York will see this for what it is: a hostile takeover disguised as a wedding.”
“The Commission has already ratified it,” Dante answered smoothly.
He gestured faintly with two fingers.
Marco stepped forward and dropped a sealed wax envelope onto the table in front of Silvio.
“The New York five families received proof of Eliza’s lineage three hours ago. Her DNA matches Antonio’s dental records on file with the state coroner. Under the old laws of nineteen-seventy-two, she inherits all Bellisario maritime territory immediately.”
Dante leaned back in his leather chair, crossing one long leg over the other.
“As her legal husband and conservator, those docks belong to the Richi syndicate. Effective midnight tonight, your trucks pay a thirty percent tariff to enter the terminal.”
Silvio stared at the wax-sealed document as if it were a coiled viper.
His breathing grew heavy, ragged with suppressed fury.
He knew he was beaten.
He was outgunned, legally outmaneuvered, and trapped sixty floors above the streets he thought he ruled.
Silvio slowly lowered his hands, his gaze drifting back to me with a look of pure, concentrated malice.
“You look just like your mother, Eliza,” he whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “Pretty. Fragile. Full of righteous fire.”
He leaned over the table, his breath smelling of stale tobacco.
“Teresa thought she was untouchable, too. But running only works for so long. Accidents happen in Chicago every single day. Brakes fail on bridges. Gas lines leak in nice apartments. Fires start in the dark.”
He straightened his suit jacket, turning toward his guards.
“Enjoy your honeymoon, Miss Ki. It won't last until the spring.”
Silvio turned on his heel and marched toward the elevators, his security detail trailing close behind him.
The heavy elevator doors closed, cutting off their presence from the floor.
The room remained eerily quiet.
I sat at the table, my chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly leaving my muscles, leaving behind a cold, hollow trembling.
Dante dismissed his men with a flick of his hand.
They vanished through the side doors, leaving only the two of us in the vast, shadowed dining hall.
Dante stood up and walked around the table until he was standing beside my chair.
He looked down at me, his amber eyes unreadable.
“You held your ground,” he murmured.
“He threatened to kill me,” I whispered, looking up at him, my fingernails biting into my palms. “He admitted to my father’s murder and threatened to burn me alive.”
Dante reached down, his fingers closing firmly over my trembling hands, stilling their shaking with his overwhelming warmth.
“Silvio is a dying animal, Eliza. And dying animals make a great deal of noise before they bleed out.”
His thumb brushed across my knuckles, resting against the heavy platinum ring on my finger.
“He will try to kill you,” Dante said softly. “Which is why tonight, you do not sleep in the guest suite.”
I blinked, my heart skipping a beat.
May you like
“What?”
“You sleep in my bedroom,” Dante commanded, his voice dark and uncompromising. “Behind three steel-reinforced vault doors and an armed guard outside the frame. If Silvio wants your life, he will have to step over my corpse to get it.”
