Chapter 5 - A Traitor's Footsteps
The observation room was small, soundproofed, and dark. Through the glass, I looked down into a lavish conference hall paneled in polished walnut. A dozen men in high-end suits sat around a massive table, looking tense, suspicious, and heavily armed.
At the head of the table sat Dante Falcone.
He looked immaculate, despite the white gauze taped over his temple. His dark hair was combed back, his charcoal suit tailored to perfection, showing none of the physical trauma from the cliffside crash. He sat relaxed, a glass of water before him, radiating an aura of total, ruthless dominance.
"Thank you all for arriving on short notice," Dante began, his voice amplified through the hidden intercom in my observation booth. "As some of you may have heard through early morning chatter, my vehicle suffered a mechanical failure on the mountain road near the pass last night."
Murmurs broke out across the table.
A man seated to Dante’s right—sharp-featured, around forty, with slicked-back silver hair and wearing a gold Rolex—leaned forward.
"A mechanical failure, Dante?" the man spoke.
I gasped in the darkness of the booth, my hand flying to my mouth.
The voice was rough, gravelly, with an unmistakably harsh hiss on the letter 's'. It was the exact voice from the alley behind Bellini's.
"That road is treacherous in the rain," the man continued, shaking his head with an expression of deep concern. "You should have taken an armored convoy. We cannot afford to lose the head of the family when the Morettis are pushing into our warehouse sectors."
"I agree, Vincent," Dante replied smoothly, his eyes locking onto his cousin. "Which is why I found it peculiar that the brake line of my car had been cleanly sliced with a carbon-steel cutter."
The room plunged into utter, suffocating silence. You could hear the hum of the air conditioning.
Vincent's face tightened, though he quickly masked it with outrage. "Sabotage? On our own fleet? Moretti infiltrators? Dante, let me take twenty men down to the docks right now. If Moretti breached our garage, I'll turn their waterfront into an open grave."
"Moretti didn't breach our garage," Dante stated calmly. He pulled a small velvet bag from his pocket, untied the golden drawstring, and tipped its contents onto the polished wood table.
A charred, gold-plated lighter rolled across the wood, coming to rest directly in front of Vincent.
Engraved on its casing was the eagle clutching a broken crown.
Vincent stared at it, his throat muscles constricting visibly. "What... what is this?"
"Found at the scene by the alley behind Bellini’s," Dante said, leaning his forearms onto the table. "Dropped by the mechanic who cut my brakes. You remember that lighter, don't you, Vincent? I had six of them made in Milan. One for me, one for Marco, one for each of the captains."
Vincent slowly looked around the table. The other men had instinctively pulled back, hands drifting toward the lapels of their jackets.
"You're accusing me?" Vincent's raspy voice turned sharp, venomous. "Based on a dropped lighter? Anyone could have stolen it from my desk! This is absurd, Dante! You're losing your mind after taking a blow to the head!"
In the booth, the door opened quietly. Dante walked in, leaving Marco to preside over the room below.
"Well?" Dante asked, staring through the one-way glass at his cousin. "Is that the voice?"
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I turned to face Dante, my pulse hammering in my ears. "Yes. That's him. I swear on my life, that is the exact voice from the phone call."
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