Chapter 6 - The Dinner of Judas
The grand dining room of the Cold Spring Harbor mansion was a masterpiece of dark walnut paneling, crystal chandeliers, and heavy velvet curtains.
At the center of the room sat a twenty-foot mahogany table. Five men sat around it, dressed in tailored suits, enjoying heavy cuts of prime rib and expensive Barolo wine.
Enzo sat at the head of the table, cutting his steak with deliberate, precise movements.
"The docks in Brooklyn are secured," said a thick-set man with a thick mustache named Gianni. He was Enzo’s oldest captain, running the waterfront operations for twenty years. "If Moretti tries to land a shipment from Palermo, my boys will sink the boat before it reaches the Narrows."
"Moretti isn't coming by sea, Gianni," sneered a younger man sitting to his right. His name was Victor Rossi—a slick, thirty-five-year-old capo who managed the cartel’s legal real estate holdings and offshore accounts. He wore a six-figure Rolex and carried himself with an aura of supreme, untouchable arrogance. "He used a ghost shooter in Midtown. He’s using surgical strikes, not muscle."
Sarah walked into the room through the service kitchen door, holding a heavy silver water pitcher on her tray. Her limp was subtle, hidden beneath the long, formal apron Dr. Zhang had provided.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain the men at the table could hear it.
She moved around the table with trained, mechanical grace, filling glass after glass with ice water.
Keep your head down, she told herself. Look at their hands. Watch their eyes.
"We need to find out who gave that shooter access to the Halston," said a third captain, an elderly man named Aldo with thick reading glasses. "The hotel's security chief is refusing to talk to our lieutenants."
Enzo set his fork down with a loud, metallic clink against his china plate.
The entire table went dead silent.
"The hotel security chief didn't give the Morettis access," Enzo said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a razor blade.
Victor Rossi frowned, leaning forward. "What do you mean, Boss?"
Enzo rested his chin on his hands, looking around the table at his five closest lieutenants.
"The shooter was wearing a very specific piece of jewelry," Enzo lied smoothly, watching every eye at the table. "My men recovered it from his jacket before his body was cleared. A silver tie bar... shaped like a serpent coiling around a dagger."
Sarah moved behind Victor Rossi, pouring water into his glass.
As Enzo spoke the words silver tie bar, Sarah’s eyes locked onto Victor’s hands under the edge of the mahogany table.
Victor’s left hand instantly twitched. His fingers reached up, subtly pressing against the inner lining of his suit jacket pocket—checking for something that was no longer there.
Then, he glanced up—not at Enzo, but toward the corner of the dining room where the security camera was mounted. A microscopic droplet of sweat formed along his hairline near his temple.
It’s him, Sarah thought, her breath catching in her throat. Victor.
"It’s an old family token," Enzo continued, his eyes scanning the table, though from his angle at the head, he couldn't see Victor’s hand beneath the table edge. "Dominic Moretti gave those tie bars to three men twenty years ago when they swore an oath in Palermo. Only three exist."
"Boss..." Gianni said, looking confused. "Who had the third one?"
"That's what I'm asking you, Gianni," Enzo said coldly.
Sarah finished filling Victor’s glass. As she stepped back, her bare shoe slipped slightly against the polished floor, her cane knocking softly against the back of Victor’s mahogany chair.
Victor whirled around, his face dark with sudden, irrational fury. "Watch it, girl! You almost spilled water on a three-thousand-dollar jacket!"
He reached out, grabbing Sarah’s wrist tightly to shove her away.
His fingers caught the cuff of her sleeve, pulling her arm back.
The motion pulled down the collar of her black server jacket, exposing the thick white surgical bandage wrapping around her left shoulder and collarbone.
Victor froze.
His eyes darted from the heavy medical bandage to Sarah’s face. He looked at her eyes—the sharp, intelligent blue eyes he had briefly seen in the hotel security footage from three nights ago.
"You..." Victor whispered, the color draining from his face in a fraction of a second. "You're... the server from the ballroom. You're dead."
The entire room went dead silent.
May you like
Enzo stood up from the head of the table, pulling his heavy silver pistol from his suit jacket in one fluid, terrifying motion.
"She isn't dead, Victor," Enzo said, his voice dropping into the cold register of absolute death. "But you are."
