Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Wolves
Twenty minutes later, the grand dining hall on the ground floor was packed.
By Damiano’s direct order, I was stationed just inside the service pantry with a clear view through the glass-paneled partition. Emma was safely asleep in the fourth-floor suite under Marco’s watchful guard, but I couldn't tear myself away. The air in the mansion was charged with static, thick with the scent of expensive cigars, rain, and imminent death.
Around the long mahogany table sat the five most feared Mafia dons on the East Coast.
To my left sat Salvatore Marcone, the aging boss of the Brooklyn syndicate, tapping a diamond ring nervously against the wood. Across from him was Vincent Gallo, representing the Philadelphia families, flanked by two armed bodyguards who looked entirely too tense.
At the head of the table sat Damiano Moretti.
Standing right beside him, draped in a breathtaking emerald-green silk dress that glittered under the crystal chandelier, was Elena Vance. A sparkling silver bracelet dangled from her wrist, catching the light with every subtle movement.
She looked radiant. Untouchable.
"Well, Damiano," Salvatore rasped, clearing his throat. "We’re all here. The papers are on the table. Let’s sign this peace accord and put the past five years of bloodshed behind us."
"Agreed," Vincent added, leaning forward. "Though I must admit, I'm surprised you wanted this summit at your own estate. Most men in your position prefer neutral ground."
Damiano didn't pick up his pen. He sat back in his high-backed leather chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Elena.
"Neutral ground implies trust, Vincent," Damiano said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the room like a razor. "And trust is an expensive commodity. Especially when someone in this room has been trying to blow us all to kingdom come."
The table erupted into instant chaos.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Salvatore barked, slamming his palm onto the table.
"An accusation, Sal," Damiano replied smoothly. He reached down beside his chair, lifted a heavy, custom-tooled black briefcase, and set it squarely in the center of the mahogany table. He popped the latches with a sharp, echoing click and flipped the lid open.
Inside sat the digital detonator Emma had found, alongside four pounds of military-grade C-4 explosives wrapped in gray plastic, meticulously wired to a remote receiver.
Every man at the table recoiled in horror, their bodyguards instantly drawing their weapons in a blur of motion.
"Mother of God," Vincent whispered, staring at the explosives. "Where did you find that?"
"Taped beneath this exact table," Damiano said softly. His eyes never left Elena. "Set on a timer to detonate at precisely 9:15 PM—ten minutes after we signed the treaty. It would have wiped out the entire leadership of the East Coast syndicate in one clean blast. The North Side would have blamed Brooklyn, Brooklyn would have blamed Philadelphia, and whoever planted it would have inherited a vacuum of power."
Elena’s face had lost every trace of color. She stood frozen beside Damiano’s chair, her hand trembling slightly as it rested on the back of his seat.
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"Damiano..." Elena breathed, her voice cracking with a masterclass of fabricated panic. "What are you saying? Who could have done such a thing? This is insane!"
"It is insane, Elena," Damiano agreed, his voice dangerously gentle. "Because the only person who had access to this private dining room today... the only person who walked in here before the guards swept the perimeter... was you."
