Chapter 10
The transition from a scene of domestic violence back to a formal Mafia banquet happened with terrifying, orchestrated efficiency. At a subtle nod from Vincent, the live string quartet in the corner immediately resumed playing, the classical music a surreal soundtrack to the adrenaline still pumping through the room. Waiters rushed out of the kitchen, quickly clearing the spilled food and righting the overturned chairs.
Vincent walked to the head of the main family table, holding Emma securely on his hip. He didn't put her down. Instead, he pulled out his heavy leather chair and sat, keeping the little girl safely nestled on his lap. Laura and David quickly took their seats beside him, presenting a united, unbreakable front.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Vincent announced. His deep, authoritative voice cut effortlessly through the music. The entire room immediately fell silent, giving him their undivided attention.
"Tonight, we celebrate the prosperity of this family," Vincent continued, his American accent smooth and commanding. The charming, romantic look returned to his handsome face, though his eyes remained sharp and vigilant. "We celebrate loyalty. And we celebrate the future."
He raised his crystal glass of water, holding it up in a toast.
"To the Moretti family," Vincent declared. "May we always protect our own. And may our enemies... always underestimate our resolve."
"To the Morettis!" the crowd echoed in unison, raising their glasses, desperate to prove their unwavering loyalty to the terrifying Boss who had just exiled his own sister without a second thought.
As the banquet resumed, Vincent kept Emma on his lap, letting her eat her dessert safely under his absolute protection. The bright, cinematic lighting cast a warm glow over his family, but Vincent’s mind was already operating at a tactical level.
He caught the eye of his lead capo, who was standing near the exit. The capo gave a subtle, grim nod, confirming that Margaret had been secured and was en route to the isolated facility. But the look in the capo's eyes suggested something more—a complication.
Later that evening, after the guests had departed and Emma was safely tucked into her bed, Vincent stood in his private, dimly lit study.
The heavy oak doors opened, and the capo walked in.
"Boss," the capo said quietly. "Margaret didn't act alone today. Before we confiscated her phone, she sent an encrypted message to the Falcone syndicate in New York. She promised them our shipping routes if they backed her play to remove you."
Vincent’s sharply defined jawline clenched. The tattoos on his neck seemed to pulse in the low light. The confrontation in the banquet hall wasn't just an act of bitter cruelty; it was the opening move of a coup orchestrated by a rival family.
"They think," Vincent whispered, his voice a low, lethal hum, "that a divided house is an easy target."
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He picked up a heavy, customized firearm from his desk, checking the chamber with practiced, deadly efficiency. The war had not been averted; it had merely been delayed.
"Mobilize the men," Vincent commanded, his cold eyes burning with an apocalyptic fire. "We are going to New York."
