Chapter 4 - The Rat in the Syndicate
By 2:00 a.m., the boys were fast asleep in the guest suites down the hall—four massive, perfectly appointed bedrooms they hadn't wanted to pick between, so they had dragged all their pillows into one king-sized bed anyway.
Mara sat at the quartz island in my kitchen, a mug of black coffee cooling between her palms. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the silent, snow-dusted streets of Tribeca.
"Arthur Vance is going to be at my office by nine o’clock," I said, not turning around. "He’s been my mother’s legal hatchet man for twenty-five years. If Vince was the one who delivered that envelope to you, Arthur drafted the non-disclosure agreements that buried your medical records from the maternity clinic."
"You think your own lawyer helped your mother hide me?" Mara asked, her voice tight with disbelief.
"Arthur doesn't serve the Moretti family," I replied coldly. "He serves whoever holds the leash. And right now, that’s my mother."
Mara set her mug down, standing up and walking over to the glass. She stopped a foot away from me, her reflection ghosting over the Manhattan lights outside.
"Dominic, you can't just declare war on your own syndicate," she said, her voice laced with genuine fear. "These aren't corporate executives you're dealing with. They're dangerous men. If they realize you’ve turned against them..."
"Let them realize it," I turned, looking down into her dark eyes. The defensive wall she had carried all evening had finally crumbled, leaving behind the resilient, fiercely protective woman I had fallen in love with six years ago. "For six years, they stole my family from me. They stole your youth, your peace of mind, and every first step those boys ever took. I built this empire on blood and contracts, Mara. And if I have to tear it down brick by brick to make sure no one ever touches you or our sons again, I will do it before sunrise."
She reached out, her fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently touching the side of my face. Her skin was warm, calloused from years of hard labor in restaurant kitchens, and entirely real.
"You haven't changed at all, have you?" she whispered.
"I’ve only just started," I murmured.
My phone—a secondary, encrypted burner I used exclusively for syndicate operations—vibrated sharply against the kitchen counter.
I walked over and picked it up.
A single text message from an unknown number inside the Moretti inner circle: Elena is calling an emergency Capo council for 10:00 AM at the Madison Avenue townhouse. She’s invoking Article Four. They’re voting to strip your title and freeze your personal accounts.
I stared at the screen, a cold, predatory smile spreading across my lips.
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Article Four. The syndicate’s archaic clause allowing the ruling head to depose a compromised leader.
My mother thought she was staging a coup. She didn't realize she was walking straight into a trap.
