Chapter 4 - The Sit-Down in Little Italy
The midnight air in Little Italy was thick with light fog, wrapping around the old brick buildings like a shroud.
The meeting was set in the basement dining room of Il Solitario, a classic, dimly lit Italian restaurant that had served as neutral ground for New York's underworld for over half a century. No weapons were allowed inside the main dining hall—a rule enforced by neutral elders who guarded the heavy oak doors.
Elias Vance walked down the narrow stone stairs, accompanied only by Frank. Elias wore a crisp charcoal suit, his coat draped over his shoulders, looking more like a corporate CEO than the monarch of the city's most dangerous syndicate.
Inside the basement, sitting at a long mahogany table illuminated by hanging glass lamps, was Don Moretti—a heavy, gray-haired man in his sixties with sharp, greedy eyes. Sitting beside him, looking visibly nervous yet trying to project an aura of unearned arrogance, was Marcus Miller.
Marcus looked disheveled. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, his knuckles were bruised, and his eyes darted frantically around the room. When Elias entered, Marcus flinched slightly before hardening his jaw.
"Vance," Don Moretti said, his voice deep and gravelly from decades of cigar smoke. He didn't stand up. He gestured to the empty chair across the table. "Sit."
Elias didn't sit. He remained standing, pulling off his leather gloves slowly, finger by finger, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Marcus. Marcus squirmed under his gaze, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
"You brought a lot of tension to my borough, Elias," Don Moretti continued, leaning forward and resting his thick arms on the table. "Marcus here claims you broke the ancient code. You entered his territory in Queens, snatched his wife and his newborn twin children, and brought them to your penthouse. That is a direct violation of our borders."
Elias chuckled—a low, dry sound that had zero humor in it. He tossed his leather gloves onto the polished wood table.
"Is that what he told you, Moretti?" Elias asked smoothly.
"It's the truth!" Marcus spat out, slamming his hand on the table to make himself appear bold. "She's my wife! Those are my daughters! You had no right to take what belongs to me, Vance!"
Elias slowly turned his gaze toward Marcus. The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing.
"Your wife?" Elias asked, his tone dangerously soft. "Your daughters?"
"Yes! They are my blood!" Marcus shouted, looking toward Don Moretti for support. "Don Moretti, this man disrespects your authority by harboring my family. I demand they be returned to me tonight! And I demand compensation for the territory breach!"
Don Moretti stroked his chin, looking at Elias with a calculating smile. "He has a point, Elias. A man's family is his business. You have no claim over Marcus's wife or his children. Hand them back, pay a fine for entering Queens, and we forget this ever happened."
Elias took a slow step toward the table, leaning forward until his face was just inches from Marcus’s terrified eyes.
"Four nights ago," Elias said, his voice echoing in the quiet basement like a death sentence, "I stopped my convoy near the Hudson River overpass. The temperature was fifteen degrees below freezing."
Marcus’s eyes widened slightly, a flash of panic crossing his face.
"I found a woman lying in the snow," Elias continued, every word crisp and devastating. "She was bleeding from fresh postpartum tears. Her back was covered in severe purple bruises—bruises caused by heavy boots. And beneath her thin coat, she was holding two newborn infant girls whose skin had turned gray from the frost."
Don Moretti’s brow furrowed. He turned his gaze slowly toward Marcus.
"She wasn't kidnapped, Moretti," Elias said, lifting his eyes to meet the older Don's gaze. "This coward dragged his wife out of bed an hour after she gave birth because she bore him twin girls instead of a son. He had his thugs beat her, and he dumped them under a bridge to freeze to death so he wouldn't have to feed them."
"That's a lie!" Marcus yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "She's a whore! She ran away with her lover and—"
BANG!
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Elias’s hand moved like a striking viper. He grabbed Marcus by the throat, slamming his head violently down onto the heavy mahogany table. Wood cracked under the impact. Elias held him pinned, his large fingers squeezing Marcus’s windpipe until the man’s eyes bulged and his face turned dark red.
"Don Moretti!" Marcus’s guards shouted, reaching for their jackets.
"Hold!" Don Moretti barked, his face darkening with intense disgust as he stared at Marcus. The old mobster had his own code—brutal, but grounded in respect for family. "Is this true, Marcus?"
"He... he's... lying..." Marcus gasped, clawing desperately at Elias’s iron grip, but Elias didn't budge an inch.
"I have the medical reports signed by Dr. Chen," Elias said coldly, his grip on Marcus tightening. "I have the CCTV footage of his van leaving the Queens alleyway and dropping her at the Hudson overpass. He didn't just abandon his family, Moretti. He proved himself to be a spineless dog who hides his weak violence behind your name."
Don Moretti leaned back in his chair, breathing deeply through his nose. The disgust on the old man's face was absolute. In their world, a man who beat rival gang members was respected; a man who threw his own newborn infants into the snow was considered lower than dirt.
"You brought this garbage to my table, Marcus?" Moretti spat, looking down at the squirming man. "You made me challenge the Vance Syndicate over a woman you threw in the trash?"
"Please... Don Moretti..." Marcus choked out, blood trickling from his broken nose onto the polished table.
Elias leaned down, his lips brushing against Marcus’s ear.
"You called those tiny girls a curse, Marcus," Elias whispered, his voice dark and merciless. "You said they weren't worth feeding. From this night forward, you no longer have a wife. You no longer have daughters. If you ever breathe their names again, if you ever look in the direction of my building, I will not just kill you. I will tear down everything you have ever touched."
Elias lifted Marcus by the neck and threw him backward across the floor like a sack of dirty laundry. Marcus collapsed onto the cold tiles, coughing violently and clutching his bruised throat.
Elias turned back to Don Moretti, wiping his hands with a handkerchief.
"The woman and the children remain with me, Moretti," Elias declared smoothly. "Do we have an agreement, or do we start a war?"
Don Moretti looked at Marcus groveling on the floor, then looked up at Elias Vance. He slowly raised his glass of red wine.
"Take the woman and the children, Elias," Moretti said flatly. "Marcus is stripped of his crew and his rank in Queens as of tonight. A man who abandons his blood is no soldier of mine."
Elias picked up his leather gloves from the table, fitting them back onto his broad hands. He looked down at Marcus one last time—a look of total, absolute contempt.
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"You're lucky I let you live tonight, Marcus," Elias said softly. "Pray to whatever god you believe in that those little girls never grow up to ask who their father was."
Without another word, Elias turned and walked out of the basement, his heavy footsteps echoing into the dark foggy night.
