Chapter 7 - The Traitor’s Shadow
"Scar Face," I said slowly, the image of that cruel sneer burned permanently into my memory.
"His name is Salvatore 'Sal' Rossi," Carmela said, walking toward a pair of mahogany pocket doors that led into an expansive library lined with thousands of leather-bound books. She gestured for me to follow.
On a massive oak desk in the center of the room sat several digital tablets displaying photographs, corporate flowcharts, and banking dossiers.
"Sal Rossi is a mercenary," Carmela explained, leaning against the desk. "He doesn't have the brains or the capital to coordinate an execution against me. He works for Marcus Vane, one of our council members. But Marcus couldn't have pulled this off alone either. To bypass my personal guard, he needed someone inside this house. Someone who had access to my private schedule."
She slid a tablet toward me. On the screen were five photographs of men and women, all impeccably dressed, all looking like respectable corporate executives.
"These are the five lieutenants who sit on the Romano Executive Board," Carmela said. "One of them fed Sal Rossi my coordinates. Sal is currently in our holding facility, but his loyalty to his employer is sealed with a cyanide pill he managed to swallow before Matteo's men could pump his stomach."
My eyes widened. "He's dead?"
"He died twenty minutes ago," Carmela said coldly, without a hint of remorse. "Which means the dead-end trail stops with you. When Sal was in your café... when he cornered you before the backup arrived... did he say anything? Did he make a call? Did he drop a name, a reference, a slip of the tongue?"
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to step back into that terrifying moment behind the café counter. The hum of the neon lights. The smell of burning dark roast. The gun pointed at my face.
*Flashback:*
*The bell jingling. Scar Face glaring at me. His phone buzzing in his breast pocket. He had pulled it out for half a second. He hadn't answered it, but the screen had lit up.*
"His phone," I whispered, opening my eyes. "It vibrated while he was threatening me."
Carmela leaned forward, her gaze intense. "Did you see a name?"
"No. It wasn't a name. It was an icon. A custom ringtone notification." I tapped my forehead, trying to reconstruct the image. "It was a blue crest. A bird with two heads, holding a silver key."
Carmela’s breath caught sharply.
For the first time since I met her, a ripple of genuine shock crossed her face. The mask of untouchable composure slipped, revealing a deep, agonizing betrayal.
"The Bicephalic Falcon," Carmela whispered, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. "The family crest of the Moretti bloodline."
"Who is Moretti?" I asked.
"Julian Moretti," Carmela said, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her cane. "My godson. The boy I raised after his father died in the turf wars of ninety-eight. I gave him control of our offshore accounts. I made him my designated heir."
She turned toward the tall arched windows overlooking the gray expanse of Lake Michigan.
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"Julian didn't just want my seat when I died of old age," Carmela said softly, the fury in her voice vibrating through the room. "He wanted to accelerate the timeline. And tonight, he is hosting the annual Winter Solstice Gala at the Drake Hotel—the very event where he planned to announce my 'tragic, untimely disappearance' and claim the Regency of the Romano syndicate."
***
