Chapter 2 - The War Council Upstairs
Upstairs in the grand mahogany library, smoke from imported cigars hung thick in the air like a heavy fog.
Dante Voss paced back and forth across the Persian rug, his holster creaking with every step. Around the long oak table sat four of the most ruthless capos in the Moretti syndicate: Vincent Scarpotta, Tony "The Knife" Vane, and two enforcers flown in directly from the Chicago docks.
"The funeral arrangements are being handled quietly," Dante said, slamming his hand onto the table. "We bury him at dawn in the private family plot behind the chapel. But before that, we divide the territory. Costanza thinks he can move into our shipping lanes in Brooklyn? We burn his warehouses to the ground before the sun hits noon."
Vincent Scarpotta, an older man with graying hair and cold eyes, leaned back in his leather chair, tapping a diamond ring against the wood. "And who authorized you to split the empire, Dante? Lorenzo’s body isn't even cold yet."
"Lorenzo is dead!" Dante snarled, leaning over the table, his face inches from Vincent's. "Caldwell declared it. The heart monitor flatlined for twenty minutes! The man is gone, Vincent. Unless you want the Costanzas to walk in and take everything we’ve built, someone has to lead. And right now, that's me."
A heavy murmur of agreement rippled through the younger capos. They were hungry for blood, eager for war, ready to turn New York into a slaughterhouse.
None of them noticed the heavy library doors click open.
None of them heard the soft, measured footsteps entering the room.
It wasn't until Dante felt a sudden, unnatural drop in the room's temperature—or perhaps it was just the sheer psychological weight of the presence—that he stopped pacing.
Vincent Scarpotta’s face drained of all color. His cigar slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the Persian rug, burning a small black hole into the fabric.
Dante slowly turned around.
Standing in the doorway, wrapped in a dark woolen coat thrown hastily over his shoulders, was Lorenzo Moretti.
His face was pale, his dark hair slightly damp, and a faint bandage peeked out from beneath his collar where the bullet had grazed him. But there was nothing dead about him. His eyes were burning with a dark, terrifying fury that made the bravest men in the room step back instinctively.
"Dante," Lorenzo said. His voice was quiet, but it echoed through the cavernous library like the crack of a whip. "You're splitting my empire awfully early for a man who hasn't even checked the body."
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Dante stumbled backward, his hand flying to the butt of his pistol. "B-Boss? That's... that's impossible. Caldwell said..."
"Caldwell is a surgeon, not a god," Lorenzo interrupted, taking a slow, measured step into the room. Every board beneath his boots seemed to groan. "And you, Dante... you seemed remarkably eager to put me in the ground."
