Chapter 8 - The Reconstruction of Blood
The Council of the Nine met in the cellar of the old cathedral in Newark—a place where the Moretti family had settled their internal disputes since 1920. The air was thick with the scent of damp lime, ancient tallow candles, and the cold, sour breath of old men who had outlived their own children by being more ruthless than the winter.
George Moretti, Aleandro’s uncle and Marco’s father, sat at the far end of the long stone table. His hands were gnarled with arthritis, his eyes milky with cataracts, but he still wore the gold ring of the northern territory like a weapon.
"You brought a woman into the house, Aleandro," George rumbled, his voice like stones scraping inside a tin can. "A woman from the Vance bloodline. Her brother was the state’s dog. My son is missing because of your weakness for a pale face."
The other seven capos sat in silence, their faces hidden by the long shadows cast by the tallow candles. They had their hands on the table—the rule of the council—but their fingers were twitching near their rings.
Aleandro sat at the head of the table, his chair slightly higher than the others, his charcoal suit pristine against the gray stone of the cellar. To his left stood Sophia. She wasn't wearing blue satin tonight. She was in a tailored black suit, her hair pulled back into a tight, professional knot, her face as still and cold as the marble saints in the nave above.
"Marco wasn't missing, Uncle George," Aleandro said, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling with the sharp clarity of a pistol shot. "He was traded."
He nodded to Sophia, who stepped forward and placed a thick leather binder on the stone table, sliding it straight down the center until it stopped in front of the old man.
"Those are the bank records from the Cayman accounts registered to Cole Development Holdings," Sophia said, her voice clear, steady, and entirely free of any feminine hesitation. "Your son received four million dollars from the Boston faction to arrange the assassination of my brother, and another six million to provide the federal task force with the shipping manifests for the Palermo crates. He wasn't trying to take Aleandro’s seat. He was trying to liquidate the entire Moretti syndicate and sell the pieces to the New York houses."
George Moretti stared at the binder, his milky eyes widening as he turned the pages, his gnarled fingers shaking against the white paper. The other capos leaned close, their whispers turning into a sharp, dangerous hiss as they saw the transaction logs signed with Marco’s personal digital key.
"This... this is a forgery," George stammered, looking up at the other old men for support. "The woman made it! She’s a Vance! She wants to divide us!"
"The verification codes are from the Swiss clearinghouse, George," one of the older capos from the southern district said, his voice dropping like an iron door. "My own nephew runs that desk. The signatures are real."
Aleandro stood up. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't need to. The room belonged to him now, not by blood, but by the absolute clarity of his strategy.
"The council has a rule for treason, Uncle George," Aleandro said, his blue eyes locking onto the old man’s face. "The family territory of the north is hereby revoked. The assets will be transferred to the Vance Trust, to be managed by the new Donna of the house."
He looked at Sophia, his hand extending toward her. She took it, her fingers firm, warm, and entirely steady against his gold ring.
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"The Moretti house doesn't bleed from the outside anymore," Aleandro said to the council. "We’ve cut away the rot. If anyone else here has a spider under their table, I suggest you let it out before my wife finds it."
The old men looked at the black-suited woman standing beside the young boss, and one by one, they lowered their heads in the old way.
