Chapter 4 - The Ghost at the Table
Aurelia was at peak capacity by 8:00 PM. The elite of Boston society dined on truffles and drank vintage champagne, entirely unaware of the storm gathering in the snow outside.
At the center table, surrounded by six heavily armed bodyguards, sat Enzo Bellandi. He was fifty years old, wearing a bespoke pinstripe suit, a massive diamond ring on his pinky finger, and the smug expression of a man who believed he had outsmarted fate itself. He was currently celebrating a new real estate deal that would launder the syndicate’s drug earnings through the city’s major development projects.
"To the future," Enzo raised his glass to his lieutenants. "A future without the old weights holding us down."
Before his men could raise their glasses, the grand chandeliers overhead suddenly flickered and went out. The restaurant was plunged into the dim, flickering light of the table candles.
The patrons muttered in confusion, but the security detail immediately stood up, their hands moving to their holsters.
"What’s going on?" Enzo snapped, his eyes narrowing in the dark. "Check the generator."
The heavy mahogany front doors of the restaurant didn't just open; they were thrown inward with such force that one of the brass hinges snapped.
A single man walked through the snow-dusted threshold. He didn't wear a mask. He didn't hide his face. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his jaw, the deep, slate-gray eyes, and the unmistakable, brutal authority of a man who had ruled the city for a generation.
Enzo’s glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the white linen tablecloth. The red wine pooled outward, looking exactly like blood in the dim light.
"Roman?" Enzo gasped, his voice losing all its power, his body trembling so violently his chair scraped against the floor. "No... it’s impossible. You're dead."
"You should have checked the ashes yourself, Enzo," Roman said, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floor as he walked toward the center table.
Behind him, thirty heavily armed men poured into the restaurant, their weapons drawn. Among them were four of the city's oldest capos—men who Enzo thought he had bought, but who had dropped to their knees the moment Roman Valente walked into their private club an hour earlier.
Enzo’s bodyguards looked at their boss, then at the wall of weapons pointed at them, and slowly raised their hands. They were paid well, but no one was paid enough to fight a ghost.
Roman stopped at the edge of the table. He picked up a silver steak knife from a discarded plate, turning it over in his hand, the metal reflecting the candle flame.
"Five years, Enzo," Roman whispered. "I spent five years in the dark because I trusted your word. I thought my wife was safe. I thought my child was protected."
Enzo fell to his knees, his expensive suit dipping into the spilled wine. "Roman, please! The Morettis... they were pressing us! I did what I had to do to keep them away from her! I can give you the accounts! Every dollar is still there!"
"My son was selling three-dollar roses in the snow outside this very door four hours ago, Enzo," Roman said, his voice dropping to a whisper that made every capo in the room lower their heads in shame. "You didn't just steal my money. You starved my blood."
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Roman didn't use the knife. He tossed it onto the table with a sharp clang.
"Gabriel," Roman said, turning his back on his former underboss. "Take him to the North End docks. Let him see the place where he tried to burn me. And then, show him what happens to rats who leave a Valente queen in the cold."
