Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Morettis
The trial didn't take months; it took days.
The evidence contained within the secondary ledger and the silver flash drive was so overwhelmingly detailed—containing bank records, wiretap logs, corrupt political bribes, and hit contracts signed by Leo Moretti himself—that federal prosecutors didn't even grant bail.
By Friday afternoon, seventy-four members of the Moretti crime family across three states had been arrested in a massive, coordinated FBI sweep.
The threat that had hung over Boston like a toxic cloud for two decades was shattered in a single week.
I sat in the high-walled private courtyard of the Duca estate, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, watching the snow gently fall into a stone fountain.
The silence was almost disorienting. No sirens, no tactical radios, no shadows lurking behind brick walls.
Step by step, Roman walked out onto the stone patio, carrying two silver mugs of hot cocoa. He wore a simple dark sweater, looking less like a feared kingpin and more like a man who had finally laid down a heavy burden.
He handed a mug to me and sat on the wooden bench opposite mine.
"Leo Moretti pled guilty an hour ago," Roman said softly, watching the steam rise from his cup. "He’s taking forty years without parole."
"And Miles?" I asked gently.
"Miles was transferred to a federal maximum-security facility in Vermont," Roman replied, a cold shadow passing through his eyes before fading. "He will spend the rest of his life behind bars, knowing that his greed accomplished nothing."
I took a sip of the hot chocolate, looking down at the swirling dark liquid. "So... it's over."
"It is," Roman said.
I looked up at the vast estate, at the iron gates sitting open in the distance. "I suppose I should look for a new apartment. And a new job. Bellamore’s probably filled my position by now."
Roman set his mug down on the stone table. He leaned forward, looking straight into my eyes with an intensity that made my breath hitch.
"You're not going back to Bellamore's, Clara," Roman said quietly.
"Roman, I can't stay here forever," I said, a little sad despite myself. "I'm a waitress. I don't belong in this world."
"You don't belong in a world where people treat you like you're invisible, Clara," Roman corrected, his voice dropping into a rough, sincere warmth. "You saved my son’s life. You stood in a dark basement while bullets were flying, and you walked through a police ambush without flinching. You have more courage and loyalty than any executive or associate I have ever met."
He pulled a thick leather folder from beside his chair and laid it on the table between us.
"What is this?" I asked.
"The deed to the Bellamore building," Roman said smoothly. "I bought the restaurant yesterday afternoon. Along with the three properties adjacent to it."
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I stared at him, my jaw dropping open. "You... you bought Bellamore's?"
"The current owner was a coward who underpaid his staff and looked the other way when dangerous men entered his establishment," Roman said. "I intend to convert the entire property into a high-end, independent dining house. And I want you to run it. As full partner and CEO."
