Chapter 4 - The Last Toast
Down in the grand hall, the engagement party had reached its absolute peak.
The string quartet had finished their performance, replaced by a lively twelve-piece jazz orchestra playing upbeat swing music that kept the dance floor packed with swirling silk dresses and dark suits. Silver trays of aged cognac, champagne, and chocolate truffles were being carried through the crowd by attentive waiters in black waistcoats.
Don Donato Valenti sat at his elevated VIP table, leaning back in his velvet armchair, a half-empty glass of grappa in his hand. He was sixty-two years old, with thick silver hair, sharp gray eyes, and a broad, weathered face that had seen fifty years of organized violence.
He checked his pocket watch. It was 11:42 PM.
Eighteen minutes before midnight.
He looked toward the central head table. Aleandro Moretti’s chair was empty, as was Sophia’s. Donato’s eldest son, Matteo, had not returned from the second-floor corridor either.
Donato smiled to himself, swirling the clear grappa in his crystal glass. He assumed Matteo was making final preparations with the girl, ensuring she didn't lose her nerve at the critical second. Everything was proceeding precisely according to plan. Within twenty minutes, the Moretti reign over the northern provinces would come to a violent, fiery end, and the Valenti syndicate would step into the power vacuum to claim every dock, warehouse, and shipping lane from Genoa to Venice.
Suddenly, the heavy double oak doors at the main entrance of the grand hall clicked shut.
The loud, rhythmic thud of brass bolts sliding into place echoed softly through the foyer, though few guests noticed over the roar of the jazz band.
Standing near the perimeter, fifty Moretti soldiers dressed in immaculate black suits stepped forward simultaneously, placing their backs against every wall, window, and service door. Their hands rested inside their tailored jackets, their eyes cold and alert as they surveyed the room.
The music did not stop, but a subtle shift in the air began to spread through the hall like a cold draft.
Donato Valenti’s gray eyes narrowed. He set his grappa glass down on the tablecloth and signaled subtly to his chief lieutenant standing behind his chair.
“Where is Matteo?” Donato asked in a low whisper.
“He went upstairs to the study with Moretti twenty minutes ago, Don Donato,” the lieutenant replied, his hand resting nervously near his waistband. “He hasn't come down yet.”
Before Donato could reply, the heavy mahogany doors at the top of the grand staircase swung open.
Aleandro Moretti stepped out onto the landing.
He looked entirely composed, his dark suit crisp, his hair perfectly combed, his hands resting easily in his trousers pockets. He walked down the sweeping marble staircase with slow, measured steps, accompanied only by Marco, who walked two paces behind him carrying a covered silver serving tray.
The crowd near the stairs parted respectfully as Aleandro made his way across the dance floor.
He didn't return to the head table. Instead, he walked directly toward the elevated VIP booth where the Valenti family sat.
Donato forced a warm, expansive smile onto his face, rising from his velvet chair with his arms spread wide in a grand gesture of camaraderie.
“Aleandro, my boy!” Donato boomed over the music, his loud voice drawing the attention of several nearby tables. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned your own celebration! Where is your beautiful bride? A party without the queen is no party at all!”
Aleandro stopped three feet from Donato’s table. He did not smile. He did not return the embrace.
“Sophia was feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the heat of the room, Don Donato,” Aleandro said softly, his deep voice carrying clearly over the jazz trumpet. “I felt it best that she rest in a quiet room upstairs.”
“Ah, of course, of course,” Donato said smoothly, though his sharp eyes were scanning Aleandro’s face for any sign of suspicion. “And my son, Matteo? Did he go upstairs to offer his personal congratulations?”
“Matteo is upstairs as well,” Aleandro replied calmly. “He was kind enough to assist me with a small matter of internal security.”
Donato’s smile faltered slightly, his eyebrows knitting together. “Security? What kind of security?”
Aleandro gestured to Marco, who stepped forward and set the covered silver serving tray down on the center of Donato’s dining table, right between the bottle of grappa and the vase of white lilies.
The nearby guests paused their conversations, watching with curious smiles, assuming Aleandro was presenting his honored ally with a rare bottle of vintage wine or a custom gift to mark the occasion.
“As a gesture of my immense respect for the Valenti family,” Aleandro announced, his voice lifting slightly so that it carried across the entire VIP section, “and to celebrate the permanent end of our former conflicts, I wanted to present you with something truly unique tonight.”
Donato stared at the silver dome covering the tray. A cold knot of apprehension began to form in the pit of his stomach.
“Aleandro...” Donato warned in a low, dangerous tone that only the men at the table could hear. “What is this?”
Aleandro reached out with his right hand, gripped the crystal handle of the silver dome, and lifted it off the tray.
Sitting in the center of the polished silver platter was not a vintage wine or an expensive cigar box.
It was the black plastic casing of the C-4 breaching explosive, still bound in dark industrial tape, with its thin copper wire trailing off the edge. And resting directly beside it was Matteo Valenti’s gold signet ring, caked in fresh, dark blood.
The silence that fell over the VIP booth was absolute and suffocating.
Donato Valenti’s gray eyes dilated with sheer, unadulterated terror. He looked from the bloody signet ring up to Aleandro’s face, finding only a cold, dark abyss staring back at him.
“You...” Donato choked out, his hand flying toward his coat pocket.
Before his fingers could even reach his lapel, Aleandro reached into his own jacket, pulled out the small silver remote trigger, and held it up between two fingers directly in front of Donato’s face.
The tiny red LED indicator was blinking rhythmically.
“If any man at this table moves a single muscle,” Aleandro whispered, his voice smooth and cold as liquid ice, “I will press this switch. The charge on this tray is disarmed, Don Donato... but the second charge beneath your chair is not.”
Donato froze instantly, his hand paralyzed inside his jacket, his body turning as rigid as stone. His lieutenants around the table froze as well, their eyes wide with panic, their breathing coming in short, terrified gasps.
It was a lie—there was no second charge beneath Donato’s chair—but Donato did not know that. A man who had built his entire life on treachery could easily believe that his rival was capable of the exact same madness.
“Aleandro...” Donato rasped out, sweat breaking out across his forehead, running down his wrinkled temples. “Listen to me... we can talk about this... we can make a new deal...”
“The time for talking ended three weeks ago when you touched a boy in Florence,” Aleandro said quietly.
He leaned forward across the table, his face inches from Donato’s.
“Your son Matteo has already given us the locations of your safehouses in Milan, your weapons caches in Genoa, and the private accounts in Zurich,” Aleandro revealed softly. “At this exact moment, my capos are taking control of your operations across the entire province. The Valenti family no longer exists.”
Donato stared at him, his mouth open, his mind completely broken by the speed and absolute brutality of his destruction.
Aleandro reached out, picked up Donato’s glass of grappa, and held it up into the candlelight.
May you like
“To peace,” Aleandro said softly.
He set the glass back down on the silver platter beside the bloody ring, turned his back on the Valenti table, and walked calmly away into the crowd.
