Chapter 2 - The Traitor’s Table
By nine o'clock that morning, the grand dining room of the DeLuca estate was filled with heavy cigar smoke and the nervous energy of nine regional captains.
Vincent Romano sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He was a sleek man in his late forties, wearing a tailored charcoal suit with a silk pocket square. He wore a heavy gold signet ring on his right hand—a ring that belonged to the DeLuca line.
He raised both hands, demanding silence from the rumbling crowd of mobsters.
“Gentlemen, please,” Vincent said, his tone dripping with practiced grief and somber authority. “We have searched the grounds. We have checked his private lines. Salvatore’s men in Jersey haven't seen him. It is with a heavy heart that I must state the obvious: Lorenzo has been taken.”
A loud murmur erupted around the table.
“Taken by who?” barked Frank "The Bull" Corradi, a grizzled old captain from the Brooklyn docks. “Lorenzo don't just get taken out of his own bed, Vincent! He’s got forty armed guards on this estate!”
“Inside help,” Vincent lied smoothly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “We found an open side entrance near the kitchens. Someone turned off the perimeter sensors at 2:00 AM. I suspect a breach in our internal security—perhaps Marco Bruno himself.”
The room went dead silent.
“Marco?” Frank scoffed. “Marco’s been Lorenzo’s shadow for twenty years!”
“And shadows disappear when the sun goes down, Frank,” Vincent replied, his eyes narrowing. “Where is Marco right now? Has anyone seen him this morning? No. He vanished at the same time as Lorenzo.”
Vincent stood up, adjusting his suit jacket. He picked up a crystal glass filled with vintage scotch and held it high.
“Until we find Lorenzo—dead or alive—the DeLuca family cannot remain leaderless. The Moretti family in Chicago is already moving on our docks. The commission demands stability. As Lorenzo’s underboss, I am taking control of the family affairs effective immediately.”
The captains exchanged wary glances. Some nodded in reluctant agreement; others kept their faces blank, smelling the faint stench of a setup.
At that moment, the double doors of the dining room creaked open.
A young guard, pale and sweating profusely, hurried into the room and leaned down, whispering frantic news into Vincent’s ear.
Vincent’s refined expression shattered. His jaw went slack, his dark eyes widening in sudden, sharp alarm.
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Vincent hissed under his breath.
“The housekeeper, Sophia Rossi,” the guard whispered back, his voice trembling. “Her room is empty. Her little girl’s bed wasn't slept in. And sir... we found blood on the cellar floor. Fresh blood.”
Vincent’s hand shook slightly, scotch splashing over the rim of his crystal glass onto his white cuff. He wiped it away furiously.
He knew Sophia Rossi. She was a quiet, harmless widow who spent her days polishing silver and raising her fatherless child. But she was smart. And if she had been in the cellar... if she had seen Lorenzo...
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Vincent turned back to the room, forcing his face into a tight, ruthless smile.
“Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment,” Vincent announced smoothly. “It seems our housekeeper has stolen several valuable items from Lorenzo’s private safe during the confusion. Search the estate perimeter! Find Sophia Rossi and her child. Bring them to me... quietly.”
