Chapter 3 - The Snake at the Table
That evening, the Valente family estate in Long Island held an emergency meeting of the Capos.
The estate was a sprawling, fortress-like mansion surrounded by high stone walls, armed guards, and attack dogs. Rain lashed against the tall stained-glass windows of the oak-paneled dining room where twelve powerful men sat around a massive mahogany table.
Rosie sat at the head of the table beside her father, her small face completely unreadable. Lena stood directly behind Rosie’s chair, dressed in a sleek black suit provided by Ezra’s tailors, watching the room with a hawk's intensity.
Dominic sat to Ezra’s right, nervously tapping his gold lighter against the mahogany wood.
"Brother," Dominic began, leaning forward. "This is madness. Bringing a dog into a Capo meeting? We have business to discuss. The Moretti family is pressing our borders in Brooklyn. We need to strike back, not play veterinarian."
Ezra picked up his crystal glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid slowly.
"The Morettis aren't our problem, Dominic," Ezra said quietly. "They never were."
The twelve Capos shifted in their chairs, looking at each other in confusion.
"Eight years ago," Ezra continued, his voice cutting through the heavy room like a blade, "my wife was murdered because someone leaked her travel route to a hit squad. For eight years, I believed it was an external enemy. I built war chests. I spent tens of millions of dollars hunting shadows."
Ezra reached into his jacket and pulled out a sleek laptop, opening it in the middle of the table. He turned the screen toward the Capos.
"This drive was recovered from Colette’s dog today," Ezra said flatly. "It contains financial transfers from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. Accounts that paid off the hitmen who targeted my wife. Accounts registered under the name D. Valente."
The room went dead silent.
Dominic’s face drained of all color. "That's... that's a fake! It's a setup! You're going to trust some corrupt digital file over your own brother?!"
Dominic slammed his hands on the table, reaching toward his jacket—
CLICK.
Before Dominic’s hand could touch his holster, Lena Carver stepped forward from behind Rosie’s chair. In a flash of movement no one expected from a former housekeeper, she drew a compact silver pistol from her jacket and pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the side of Dominic’s neck.
Dominic froze, his breath catching in his throat.
"Don't," Lena whispered in his ear, her voice as hard as concrete. "I’ve spent ten years cleaning up trash. I won't hesitate to clear this table."
The twelve Capos stared in absolute shock. The quiet housekeeper had moved faster than any trained bodyguard in the room.
Ezra looked at his brother with cold, detached pity. "You sold out your own family, Dominic. You kept Brutus locked in a cellar on 4th Street for eight years, starving him, hoping he would die so the collar would never be found. But you forgot one thing."
Ezra looked down at Rosie, who was holding the worn silver harmonica her mother had given her years ago.
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"You forgot that true loyalty never dies," Ezra said. "Take him to the basement."
Four heavy bodyguards moved in, disarming Dominic and dragging him out of the room as he screamed curses and pleas for mercy into the cold marble hallways.
