Chapter 2 - The Serpent at the Table
By eight o'clock that evening, the rain had turned into a thick, freezing sleet that rattled against the stone facade of the mansion like handfuls of gravel.
Downstairs in the grand dining room, a long oak table sat under a heavy crystal chandelier.
At the head of the table sat Salvatore in his wheelchair, wearing a dark wool suit jacket over an open-collared white shirt. His jaw was cleanly shaved, his dark hair slicked back, though the exhaustion around his gray eyes remained deep and bruised.
Sitting to his right was his cousin, Gianni Ferraro.
Gianni was thirty-two, dressed in a sharp, expensive Italian suit that looked too clean for a man who claimed to work the docks. He had slick black hair, narrow brown eyes, and a habit of smiling before he spoke—a habit Salvatore had always hated.
Across from Gianni sat two senior capos from the Providence docks: Marco, an old veteran with white hair and broken knuckles, and Dominic, a heavy, silent man whose leather holster clicked against his chair every time he shifted.
Nadia stood near the sideboard in her black servant’s uniform, quietly setting down a silver tray of roasted meats and wine.
Gianni didn't look at her. He didn't look at any of the staff. To Gianni, people who didn't carry guns or sign checks were simply furniture that moved.
“The docks in Federal Hill are leaking money, Sal,” Gianni said, slicing into his steak with a silver knife. “Aldo Bianchi’s men are pushing into our seafood processing plants. They’re telling the union reps that you’re... out of commission.”
“Aldo Bianchi is a dead man walking,” Dominic grunted from across the table, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “He put three holes in our boss. We should burn his club in East Side to the ground tonight.”
“With what army, Dominic?” Gianni snapped, setting his knife down with a sharp clatter. “Half our street crew shifted their loyalties the second the word got out that Sal couldn't walk! They think the Ferraro family is weak!”
Gianni turned his sharp, smiling face toward Salvatore.
“I’m just saying what everyone is whispering, cousin,” Gianni said smoothly, leaning his elbows on the table. “You’re sitting up here in this stone castle, drinking expensive wine, while the streets are eating our territory alive. The capos want to know who’s running the family.”
Nadia, standing near the sideboard, froze as she poured wine into Marco’s glass. She could feel the sudden, terrifying drop in the room’s air pressure.
Salvatore did not reach for his glass. He rested his hands flat on the mahogany armrests of his wheelchair.
“The family,” Salvatore said, his voice dropping into a register that made the crystal chandelier hum softly overhead, “is run by the man who built it.”
“A man who can't stand up to face his enemies?” Gianni countered, his smile vanishing, replaced by a dark, arrogant sneer. “Times have changed, Sal. Aldo Bianchi has the Moretti family backing him from Boston. If we don't show strength—real, physical strength—we’re going to lose the entire port by Christmas.”
Gianni reached into his inner pocket, pulling out a thick manila folder and tossing it onto the table between them.
“These are the transfer deeds for the shipping container yards,” Gianni said casually. “Sign them over to my management team. I’ll handle Bianchi. You stay here, take your medicine, and let the healthy men fight the war.”
The dining room went completely silent.
Marco and Dominic looked down at their plates, unwilling to meet Salvatore’s eyes. They were loyal, but they were practical men; they knew a wheelchair could not lead a street war against Boston.
Gianni picked up a gold pen, clicking it once, and pushed it across the table toward Salvatore.
“Sign it, Sal,” Gianni murmured. “For your own good.”
Salvatore looked at the gold pen.
Then his gaze drifted past Gianni’s shoulder, toward the dark corner of the dining room where the service door stood open.
Standing quietly in the shadows was little Milo.
The boy had snuck out of the servant quarters again. He was standing on tiptoe, holding a small silver spoon he had found in the kitchen, watching the men at the table with those same dark, fearless eyes.
Salvatore looked back at Gianni.
Slowly, deliberately, Salvatore reached out with his right hand.
He picked up the gold pen.
Gianni’s eyes flashed with victorious greed.
CRACK.
Salvatore snapped the heavy gold pen in half with one hand, spilling black ink across the white linen tablecloth.
He tossed the broken pieces into Gianni’s plate of food.
“If you want my territory, Gianni,” Salvatore whispered, leaning forward in his chair until his gray eyes were inches from his cousin’s face, “you’ll have to shoot me yourself. And we both know you don't have the stomach for a bullet.”
Gianni jumped back from the table, his face flushed with pure, murderous rage, ink splattered across his silver tie.
“You’re a cripple, Sal!” Gianni spat, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “A crippled ghost in a dying house!”
“Get out of my dining room,” Salvatore commanded quietly.
Gianni glared at him, then turned his furious gaze onto Nadia, who was standing frozen near the sideboard.
“And take this trash with you!” Gianni shouted, shoving Nadia violently out of his way as he stormed toward the grand double doors.
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Nadia stumbled back, her foot catching on the rug, her hands flying out as she lost her balance.
She fell hard against the stone floor, her tea tray crashing down beside her with a deafening rattle.
