Chapter 6 - The Gathering of the Capos
By nine o'clock the following morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, cool autumn sky over Long Island Sound. The estate looked serene from the outside—a grand stone mansion surrounded by manicured lawns and towering oak trees—but inside, the air was thick with the scent of gun oil, fresh espresso, and impending slaughter.
Marco had executed Aleandro’s orders with silent, military efficiency.
By six AM, four heavy black SUVs had pulled through the front gates, carrying twelve of Aleandro’s most trusted caporegimes—the veteran commanders who controlled the docks of Brooklyn, the union halls of Manhattan, and the freight terminals of New Jersey. None of them knew why they had been summoned on a Saturday morning. They had been told only one thing: The Master calls.
They stood in the grand drawing room, talking in hushed, anxious whispers.
"What's going on, Marco?" asked Sal Moretti, a broad-shouldered man of fifty-five who oversaw the Staten Island container yards. "Is the boss alright? Word on the street is he’s declining fast."
"The boss will address you himself, Sal," Marco replied from his position near the door, his hands folded across his suit coat, his face an unreadable mask. "Be patient."
In the private study upstairs, Aleandro stood before the full-length mirror.
He wore a bespoke black three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silk tie. His dark hair was brushed back smoothly, showing the silver at his temples and the faint scar near his brow. He did not wear his dark glasses. His gray eyes were clear, sharp, and lethal, tracking every movement in the room with absolute clarity.
Elena stood beside him, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.
"Are you sure you want Mia downstairs?" Elena asked softly, her hands lingering on his lapel.
Aleandro looked down at her. Over the last twelve hours, the quiet bond between them had deepened into something profound—a quiet, unspoken understanding between two survivors who had found each other in the dark.
"Mia stays with you in the gallery balcony," Aleandro said softly, placing his hand over hers. "She needs to see that the dark man she helped isn't afraid anymore."
He looked at the small girl sitting on the leather sofa, happily eating a strawberry from a silver bowl.
"She saved my life, Elena," Aleandro murmured. "I will spend the rest of mine ensuring no one ever threatens yours."
A heavy knock sounded at the door. Marco stepped inside.
"Boss," Marco said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "Vincent’s car just passed through the main security gate. He brought three armed guards from his private European detail."
Aleandro’s lips curved into a cold, predatory smile.
"Has he called the doctor?"
"He tried Vance’s cell four times on the drive from JFK," Marco chuckled darkly. "Vance’s phone is currently sitting in a bucket of ice water down in the cellar."
"Good," Aleandro said. He picked up his dark glasses from the table, held them for a moment, and then tossed them into the wastebasket beside his desk.
"Let my cousin come up," Aleandro commanded. "Let him think he is coming to sign a death certificate."
Five minutes later, heavy footsteps echoed down the grand corridor.
Vincent Moretti stepped into the drawing room downstairs first, greeting the gathered capos with an expression of grave, solemn sorrow. He was forty-two years old, tall, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat over an Italian suit, carrying a leather briefcase containing the emergency power-of-attorney documents he had drafted in London three days prior.
"Gentlemen," Vincent said, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye as he addressed the capos. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. I received a dreadful call last night from Dr. Vance. My beloved cousin Aleandro... his brain swelling has reached a critical stage. I’m afraid he doesn't have much time left."
The capos exchanged uneasy glances. Sal Moretti cleared his throat. "So... who takes over the shipping lines, Vincent? The Rotterdam contracts are up for renewal next week."
Vincent pulled the leather briefcase closer to his chest, a subtle spark of greed flashing in his dark eyes. "I have prepared the transitional paperwork. As Aleandro’s closest living male relative, I will assume temporary leadership of the family council until—"
"Until what, Vincent?" a voice boomed from the top of the grand staircase.
The entire room fell into an instant, breathtaking silence.
Every capo turned his head toward the marble balcony above.
Aleandro Moretti stood at the top of the stairs. He was not holding the handrail. He was not reaching forward with a cane. He was walking with a long, powerful, confident stride, descending the steps two at a time, his icy gray eyes fixed directly on his cousin’s pale, bloodless face.
Vincent froze. His mouth fell open, the briefcase slipping from his fingers and hitting the marble floor with a loud, echoey crash.
"A-Aleandro?" Vincent stammered, backing away two steps, his eyes wide with absolute, horrifying terror. "You... you’re walking... you're looking at me..."
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Aleandro reached the bottom of the staircase. He stepped directly into Vincent’s personal space, stopping three inches from his chest.
"I see you very clearly, Vincent," Aleandro whispered, his voice echoing across the silent hall like a death knell. "I see the camel coat. I see the leather case. And I see the murderer who killed my wife five years ago."
