Chapter 4 - The Brother's Mask
The library of the Moretti estate was an architectural monument to old money and older secrets. The walls were lined with thousands of leather-bound volumes, their gilded spines reflecting the warm, orange glow of a massive limestone fireplace. It was the room where my father had signed the peace treaties of 2004, the room where I had taken my oath as Don.
Victor Romano stood by the sideboard, pouring two fingers of twenty-year-old scotch into a crystal tumbler. He looked exactly as he had for the last fifteen years—handsome, confident, his silver-tipped hair perfectly styled, his dark grey suit immaculate. He looked like a man who slept eight hours a night without a single bad dream.
Beside him sat Victoria, her silk robe draped elegantly over the arm of the velvet sofa, her long legs crossed as she turned the pages of a fashion magazine.
"You're up late, Aleandro," Victor said, turning around with a easy smile, extending the glass toward me. "The guards said you had some trouble with the west wing basement. Some old pipe burst?"
I didn't take the glass. I walked over to the desk, sitting down behind the heavy walnut barrier that separated the Don from the rest of the world. I was still wearing my wet coat, the dark stains of Mia’s blood invisible against the black wool but heavy against my skin.
"The pipe didn't burst, Victor," I said, my hands folding neatly on top of the desk. "The vault door was forced."
Victoria didn't look up from her magazine, but her fingers stopped turning the page. The silence in the room stretched, growing taut like a piano wire under maximum tension.
"Really?" Victor raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his own drink. "Must have been the old wiring. I told you that electronic upgrade we did last month might have some bugs. I'll have the technicians look at it in the morning."
"The maid was inside," I said.
Victoria’s magazine slid from her fingers, landing on the Persian rug with a soft, dry slap. Her face remained beautiful, but the softness had vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating coldness that I had never seen before.
Victor didn't flinch. He set his tumbler down on the sideboard with a controlled, deliberate movements. "Mia? What was she doing down there? The woman was supposed to be in New Jersey visiting her mother. Victoria said—"
"Her mother has been dead for ten years, Victor," I cut him off, my voice dropping into that quiet, deadly register that had silenced the commission in New York two winters ago. "And the maid didn't go downstairs for wine. She went downstairs because she saw my fiancée taking pictures of the Palermo manifests. The ones that detailed the exact route my car took through the hills of Corleone four days ago."
Victor looked at me for three long seconds. The mask didn't slip; it simply hardened, the friendly brotherly warmth evaporating into the raw, predatory ambition of a man who had spent his entire life standing six inches behind the throne.
"You always were too sharp for your own good, Aleandro," Victor said, his hand slowly moving toward the left side of his jacket.
"Don't do it, Victor," I said.
From the shadows behind the velvet curtains, four enforcers stepped into the light, their weapons drawn, their laser sights painting four neat, red dots across Victor’s chest and Victoria’s white silk robe.
Victor’s hand stopped. He let out a long, dry laugh, shaking his head as he stepped back against the sideboard. "Seventeen years, Aleandro. Seventeen years I stood by your side. I took the knife in Chicago. I cleaned up the mess when Elena died. And what did I get? The second seat. Always the second seat. The Romano family used to rule the northern docks before your father broke us. I was just taking back what belonged to my blood."
He looked at Victoria, a cruel, mocking smile touching his lips. "And she wasn't a gift, cousin. She’s the daughter of the Chicago prosecutor who put your uncle away. We had a deal. Your head on a plate in Palermo, and the Moretti empire split between the Romano name and the federal asset forfeiture division."
Victoria stood up, her silk robe parting to reveal a small, silver-plated derringer clutched in her right hand. Her eyes were wide, bright with the manic fury of a woman who realized the trap had snapped shut on her own leg.
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"You're a monster, Aleandro!" she shrieked. "You think you're a king? You're just a thug with an estate! My father died in a federal cell because of your family's lies—"
"Your father died because he took a bribe from the Lucchese family and forgot to pay the tax, Victoria," I said, my finger gently pressing the intercom button on my desk. "Nico. Bring the child down."
