Chapter 2 - The Gathering of Wolves
The Grand Ballroom of the Moretti estate was an arena of marble, crystal, and hidden steel.
Dozens of armed men lined the upper balconies, their hands resting near suppressed submachine guns hidden beneath high-end Italian suits. At the center of the room sat a massive round table crafted from solid mahogany. Around it stood four of the most dangerous men in the country: Don Falcone from Philadelphia, Don Moretti Senior’s old ally Don Ricci, Don Marcone from Boston, and Don Alphonse Marchand from Chicago.
Beside Alphonse stood his daughter, Vivian. She was breathtaking—tall, slender, wrapped in a champagne-gold sequined dress that caught every sliver of light. She wore a smile of supreme confidence, a queen preparing to claim her crown over a graveyard.
My hands trembled as I stood near the marble pillars at the edge of the room, holding Emma close against my side. Damiano had refused to let us hide upstairs. “If they see you hidden, they’ll know something is wrong,” he had told me. “You stand beside my chair. You act as my personal staff.”
“Damiano!” Don Alphonse boomed, spreading his arms wide as Damiano entered the room. Alphonse was a heavy man with white hair and sharp, greedy eyes. “A historic night! The war ends, the peace is signed, and our families unite through your marriage to my beautiful Vivian.”
Vivian stepped forward, her red lips curving into a deceptive smile as she reached for Damiano’s arm. “Amore,” she murmured smoothly. “Everything is prepared in your study, isn't it? Perhaps we should sign the treaty in there, privately, before the formal dinner?”
I watched her closely. She was trying to steer him into the kill zone. She wanted the bomb to go off while the dons were inside the study, ensuring maximum carnage in an enclosed space.
Damiano didn't pull away from her touch, but he didn't lean into it either. His dark eyes remained fixed on her face.
“The study is unavailable, Vivian,” Damiano said calmly. “We will sign the agreement right here, in front of everyone.”
A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of annoyance crossed Vivian’s features before she masked it with a light laugh. “Nonsense, darling. The main study is far more intimate for such a solemn occasion—”
“I said,” Damiano interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, ringing through the vast room like a iron bell, “we sign it here.”
The temperature in the room dropped instantly. Don Falcone narrowed his eyes, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere. The bodyguards along the perimeter grew rigid.
Don Alphonse chuckled, though it sounded forced. “Come now, Damiano. Don't be difficult on the night of your own triumph. Let us move to the study.”
Damiano turned slowly toward Alphonse. “Tell me, Alphonse... does Gabriel usually handle your personal explosive devices, or do you contract out for high-yield claymores?”
Silence hit the room like a physical blow.
Vivian froze. The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a marble statue. Alphonse’s smile shattered entirely.
“What... what are you talking about?” Alphonse stammered, his hand instinctively twitching toward his jacket.
“Marco,” Damiano commanded smoothly.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom burst open. Two Moretti enforcers dragged a bloody, bruised man into the room and threw him onto the marble floor. It was Gabriel, Alphonse’s personal bodyguard. Beside his battered head, Marco dropped a heavy plastic bag containing a disarmed claymore unit and a small red blinking transmitter.
Don Falcone stood up so fast his heavy chair overturned with a loud crash. “What is the meaning of this, Marchand?!” Falcone roared, pulling a silver pistol from his suit.
“It’s a lie!” Vivian shrieked, her composed persona utterly crumbling. “Damiano, he’s framing us! He’s trying to back out of the alliance!”
Damiano didn't even look at her. Instead, he reached back, took my hand, and gently pulled me and Emma out from behind the pillar into the blinding light of the chandeliers.
“My fiancée claims frame-up,” Damiano said softly to the room of armed killers. “So let us ask the witness.”
He lowered himself to one knee beside my six-year-old daughter. “Emma. Look at the lady in the gold dress.”
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Emma peeked out from behind my leg, her small hands clutching her rag doll. She pointed her tiny finger straight at Vivian.
“That’s the shiny lady,” Emma said, her innocent voice carrying clearly across the silent ballroom. “She told the sad-eyed man not to press the red button until all the grandpas were inside the room.”
