Chapter 4 - The Salt on the Bread
The grand dining room of the Moretti estate was an exercise in old-world intimidation. High ceilings draped in dark walnut paneling, a massive stone fireplace crackling with birch logs, and a twenty-foot polished mahogany table that had seen three generations of crime bosses orchestrate the control of Chicago.
At the head of the table sat Victor Moretti.
At sixty-eight, Victor looked like a retired senator. He had smooth white hair brushed back immaculate, a well-groomed beard, and wore a bespoke charcoal suit with a gold pocket watch chain looping across his vest. He was cutting a piece of rare ribeye steak with a silver knife, a crystal glass of Barolo wine resting beside his plate.
"You're late, Adrian," Victor said without looking up as the heavy double doors of the dining room opened. "The steak is getting cold. The kitchen staff was getting nervous."
Adrian walked into the room slowly. He had changed out of his rain-soaked jacket, but he still wore his black shirt and trousers. His hair was slicked back, his pale face unreadable in the warm firelight. Behind him, the heavy oak doors clicked shut with a solid, definitive thud.
"I had business in the cellar, Uncle," Adrian said smoothly, taking his seat at the opposite end of the long table—twenty feet away from the elder man.
Victor paused, his silver fork hovered inches from his mouth. His sharp blue eyes flicked up, assessing his nephew with the practiced skill of a man who had survived forty years in the Syndicate. "The cellar? Did Mason’s boys bring in that squatting woman?"
"They did," Adrian said, picking up a silver napkin ring and turning it slowly between his long fingers.
Victor set his fork down, taking a slow sip of his wine. "And? Was she anything? Another dead end?"
"She was an interesting woman," Adrian replied, his voice relaxed, conversational. "A nurse. Used to work at Lakeshore Medical Center."
Victor’s hand remained on the stem of his crystal glass. For a fraction of a second—so brief that only a man who had studied Victor for thirty years would have noticed—the older man’s fingers tightened against the glass.
"Lakeshore?" Victor remarked, his tone marvelously casual. "Ah. The night Michael died. Poor Sofia. Every time I hear that hospital named, my heart breaks anew, Adrian. You know how much I loved that girl. Like my own daughter."
"I know," Adrian said. He picked up his own glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid against the crystal. "She was very loyal. To Michael. To the family."
"Family is everything," Victor said solemnly, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. "It’s the only thing that lasts in this blood-soaked trade of ours. That's why we must crush whoever did this, Adrian. You're spending too much time brooding, nephew. You look thin. You look tired. You need to let the captains handle the street searches and focus on the high-level business. The Commission is asking questions about the Brooklyn port shipments."
Adrian set his glass down. He looked across the long mahogany expanse at the man who had held him on his knee when he was five years old. The man who had taught him how to hold a gun. The man who had stood beside Michael’s coffin and kissed the cold wood.
"Do you remember what my father used to say about salt, Uncle?" Adrian asked softly.
Victor raised an eyebrow, a faintly patronizing smile playing on his thin lips. "Your father was a poet, Adrian, not a businessman. He said a lot of things."
"He said salt and sugar look identical when they're poured into a bowl," Adrian quoted quietly, his grey eyes fixing onto Victor’s face like laser sights. "You can't tell which is which until you put it in your mouth. And by then, if it’s salt in your wine, it’s already too late."
The smile on Victor’s face slowly faded. The crackle of the fireplace seemed to grow louder in the sudden stillness of the room.
"What are you talking about, Adrian?" Victor asked, his voice dropping its warm, paternal tone.
"The nurse had something with her, Victor," Adrian said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarnished silver Saint Christopher medal. He laid it flat on the polished mahogany table between them.
The silver medal shone beneath the chandelier.
Victor stared at the tiny metal disc. The color slowly drained from his face, leaving his skin the shade of dry parchment. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.
"Where did you get that?" Victor asked, his voice barely a rasp.
"She kept it safe," Adrian said. "For ninety-three days. She kept Lucas safe, Victor."
Victor didn't move. He sat frozen in his high-backed leather chair, his eyes fixed on the medal. "The baby... is alive?"
"He is," Adrian said softly. "He is upstairs. Sleeping in my room. Safe from the police. Safe from the hitmen. Safe from Grant Heller."
At the mention of Heller’s name, Victor’s hand twitched. He made a subtle, sliding movement with his left foot beneath the table—a signal to the two personal bodyguards who usually stood outside the dining room doors.
"Don't bother," Adrian said calmly. "Mason cleared the hallway five minutes ago. Your men are currently resting in the wine cellar. They won't be joining us for dessert."
Victor’s eyes snapped up to meet Adrian’s. The illusion of the loving uncle vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of a ruthless predator who realized he had been backed into a corner.
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"Adrian," Victor said, his voice dropping all pretense of affection. "Listen to me very carefully before you do something stupid."
"I am listening," Adrian said, leaning back in his chair, folding his hands over his knee. "Give me the story, Uncle. I want to hear how you justify selling your own blood to the Commission."
