Chapter 3 - THE RAT IN THE WALLS
Dante didn’t run. He knew the grounds of the Long Island estate better than anyone; there were fifteen perimeter sensors, three guard towers, and seven Dobermans patrolling the iron fences. Nobody ran from Vincent Moretti unless Vincent allowed them a head start to make the hunt entertaining.
Instead, Dante fell back on the weapon that had kept him alive in Vincent’s shadow for forty years: weaponized compliance.
“Vince, listen to me for one second,” Dante pleaded, his palms raised, backing toward the double doors. “Those aren’t what you think. Those are offshore routing numbers. I was setting up a liquidity reserve for the family in case the federal grand jury in Manhattan issued indictments this spring. I swear on our mother’s grave!”
“Do not mention our mother,” Vincent said calmly.
He didn’t raise his voice. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved a gold-plated fountain pen, and scribbled a single line on a leather notepad. He ripped the sheet off, walked to the side door, and handed it to Marco, his chief of personal security, who had appeared like a shadow the moment Dante’s voice rose.
“Lock down the attic,” Vincent instructed Marco. “Take two men. Retrieve the contents of Sofia’s dollhouse. If a single miniature chair is broken, you answer to me personally.”
“Understood, Boss.” Marco vanished down the hall, his boots silent on the runner rugs.
Vincent turned his back on Dante—an insult more cutting than a bullet—and looked down at Clara. Clara was on her knees now, hugging Ellie tightly, her face buried in her daughter’s dark curls.
“Get up, Clara,” Vincent said.
Clara flinched, expecting judgment. She stood up shakily, clutching Ellie. “Mr. Moretti, please... I’ll pack our things. We’ll leave tonight. You don’t have to pay me my remaining wages. Just... please don’t hurt my baby.”
Vincent felt a bitter pang strike through his chest. *Is this what I have become?* he thought. *A monster so feared that a terrified mother thinks I would punish a child for telling the truth?*
“You are not leaving,” Vincent said. “You are moving your belongings into the west wing guest suite tonight.”
Clara gasped. “The guest suite? But sir, that’s where the family stays—”
“You are under my personal protection,” Vincent said, his voice brooking no argument. “Ellie, come here.”
Ellie looked up at her mother, who gave a timid, frantic nod. Ellie walked forward, her little blue shoes pattering against the marble. She held up the single gold coin she had taken.
“Did I make a good wish?” she asked innocently.
Vincent looked down at the little girl. For the first time in seven years, the granite exterior around his heart cracked. A faint, genuine smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“You made the best wish this house has heard in a very long time,” he told her. “Now, where is your stuffed bear’s other eye?”
“Dante pulled it off,” Ellie said simply. “Because I wouldn't stop crying when he yelled at Mommy.”
The temperature in the corridor plunged to absolute zero.
Vincent turned his gaze toward Dante.
Dante was sweating now. The collar of his bespoke Italian shirt was drenched. “She’s exaggerating, Vince. It was an accident. I was trying to quiet her down so the guards wouldn't hear—”
Vincent took three steps forward. Dante backed away until his shoulders struck the wall, but Vincent didn’t strike him. He simply leaned in until his breath rustled the hair over Dante’s ear.
“When we were boys,” Vincent whispered, “our father taught us two things: a Moretti protects the family, and a Moretti never lifts a hand against a woman or a child. You broke the only rule that kept you human, Dante.”
“Vincent, please—”
“You have three hours,” Vincent said cold. “Go to your quarters. Pack one suitcase. No money, no passports, no jewelry that was purchased with syndicate funds. At midnight, Marco will escort you to the border of the state. If your foot touches New York soil again, my capos have standing orders to shoot on sight.”
Dante’s eyes flared with sudden, poisonous rage. The cowardice retreated, replaced by the bitter, festering resentment of a younger brother who had lived under an unyielding thumb for decades.
“You’re exiling me?” Dante spat, venom lacing his words. “For a maid and a bastard brat? Look at you! You’re a broken, pathetic widower rotting in an empty castle! The Five Families think you’re weak, Vincent! They know your heart died when that little girl got buried in the dirt! You think the syndicate is going to follow a ghost who takes orders from a toddler?”
Vincent didn't blink. He didn't flinch.
“Midnight, Dante,” Vincent said. “If you are still in this house at twelve-zero-one, you leave in a pine box.”
Dante glared at him, breathed heavily, and then shoved past the doorway, his leather shoes clicking furiously down the corridor toward the guest wing.
Silence descended once again.
Clara was weeping silently. Ellie stood beside Vincent, her small fingers suddenly wrapping around two of his large, calloused fingers. Vincent looked down, stunned by the warmth of the child’s touch. It had been seven years since a small hand had held his.
Just then, Marco returned down the grand spiral staircase, carrying a faded leather-bound ledger and a thick manila envelope dusted with cedar chips from the attic.
May you like
“Boss,” Marco said quietly, his jaw set in a hard line. “You need to see this. It’s not just petty extortion. Dante’s been talking to the Valenti family. For months.”
***
