Chapter 4 - The Drake Hotel
The rain began to fall as the black Cadillac pulled up to the side entrance of the Drake Hotel on Walton Place. The lake wind whipped across the pavement, stinging Lorenzo’s face as he stepped out onto the curb. He wore a heavy charcoal overcoat over his dark suit, his right hand buried deep in his pocket, resting against the cold steel of his signet ring.
Bruno walked half a step behind him, two additional men from the Moretti security detail falling into position along the sidewalk.
“The dining room is on the mezzanine level,” Bruno murmured as they entered the carpeted lobby. “Private room four. Marcus reserved it under one of his real estate holding companies. He’s in there with Harold Vance.”
Lorenzo stopped in the center of the grand lobby beneath the crystal chandelier. “Vance? The former Assistant U.S. Attorney?”
“He retired three years ago,” Bruno said. “He’s a senior partner at a corporate defense firm now. If Marcus is meeting him tonight, they’re closing something out.”
“Or hiding something,” Lorenzo said.
They took the wide marble staircase to the mezzanine. The hotel was quiet, the muffled sounds of jazz music drifting up from the Palm Court below. Outside private room four, two burly men in matching grey suits sat on mahogany chairs. They were Marcus’s personal bodyguards—men who had been on the Moretti payroll for twenty years.
As Lorenzo approached, both men stood up quickly, their expressions instantly guarded.
“Mr. Moretti,” the larger guard said, stepping into the center of the hallway. “Your uncle is in a private conference. He asked not to be disturbed.”
Lorenzo didn't slow his stride. “Move, Frankie.”
“Boss, please,” Frankie said, reaching out a hand. “Marcus said—”
Bruno stepped forward, grabbing Frankie’s wrist with a sharp, violent twist and jamming the barrel of his weapon directly under the guard's chin. The second bodyguard reached for his shoulder holster, but Lorenzo’s security team had already pinned him against the wallpapered wall.
“Open the door,” Lorenzo said calmly.
Frankie swallowed hard, his eyes wide with terror, and reached back to turn the brass handle.
Lorenzo pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The private dining room was paneled in dark walnut, featuring a large oval table laid with silver ice buckets, crystal glasses, and high-end cigars. Sitting at the far end of the table was Marcus Moretti, his silver hair neatly combed at his temples, wearing his signature gold lion ring on his right hand.
Across from him sat Harold Vance—a thick-necked man in his late sixties with thinning grey hair, wearing a high-end tailored suit and gold-rimmed reading glasses.
On the table between them lay a thick leather briefcase and a stack of printed financial transfers.
Marcus froze, his wine glass halfway to his lips. “Lorenzo? What is the meaning of this?”
Vance immediately reached out to close the folder in front of him, but Lorenzo walked smoothly down the length of the table, snatched the folder from under the attorney's hands, and tossed the green vinyl file from the sub-basement directly onto the table.
The green folder landed with a heavy thud, sliding across the white tablecloth until it hit Marcus’s wine glass, sending a drop of red cabernet spilling across the pristine linen.
Marcus looked down at the federal seal on the green folder. All color instantly drained from his face.
“Where... where did you get that?” Marcus whispered, his hands beginning to shake.
“Behind the law books in the west library,” Lorenzo said, leaning both hands on the table and lowering his face until he was inches from his uncle’s eyes. “Sophie found your little door, Marcus. She liked the tiny lion on the spine.”
Vance stood up abruptly, adjusting his tie. “Mr. Moretti, I don't know who you think you are, interrupting a private legal consultation, but I am an attorney of the court—”
“Sit down, Vance,” Lorenzo said without looking at him.
Bruno stepped up behind Vance, placing a heavy hand on the attorney’s shoulder and forcing him back into his chair with terrifying force.
“Lorenzo,” Marcus stammered, his lips pale. “Listen to me. You don't understand what was happening back then. Your father... Victor was going to get us all killed! The federal grand jury had forty indictments ready to drop! We would have lost everything—the shipping lines, the mansion, the cash! I saved this family!”
“You killed my father,” Lorenzo said softly. “You had your own brother shot in his car like a dog on Michigan Avenue.”
“It was Enzo’s idea!” Marcus blurted out, his voice cracking with panicked desperation. “Enzo wanted the bearer bonds! He was in debt to the Chicago outfits for millions in illegal sports gambling! He knew Victor would never give him the money to clear his debts, so he made the deal with Vance! I just went along with it to protect the estate!”
Lorenzo looked at Vance. The former prosecutor sat completely still, his eyes darting toward the door, realizing with absolute clarity that no federal badge or legal title could protect him in this room.
“Is that true, Mr. Vance?” Lorenzo asked gently. “Did my brother orchestrate my father’s execution?”
Vance swallowed hard, his throat dry. “The... the agreement was structured under the Witness Protection Act of 1978. Enzo Moretti provided actionable intelligence regarding Victor Moretti’s organized crime enterprise. In exchange, he was granted full civil immunity and relocated under an assumed identity.”
“And where is my brother living right now?” Lorenzo asked.
Vance remained silent.
Lorenzo reached across the table, grabbed Vance by the lapels of his thousand-dollar suit, and dragged him across the wood until their noses almost touched.
“Where is he?” Lorenzo growled.
“Mendoza,” Vance gasped out, terror breaking through his legal composure. “Mendoza, Argentina. He runs an import firm called Cordillera Freight. He’s been receiving monthly distributions from the family’s offshore accounts in the Caymans.”
Lorenzo let go of Vance, letting the attorney slump back into his chair like a discarded rag.
He turned his gaze back to his uncle Marcus.
“For eleven years,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it made the air in the room feel brittle, “I thought I was carrying the mantle of an honorable family. I built businesses to support your lifestyle. I paid for your doctors, your country club memberships, your houses. And all the while, you were paying my father's killer a salary out of my labor.”
“Lorenzo... please,” Marcus sobbed, tears spilling over his withered cheeks. “I’m your father’s brother! I’m your blood!”
“My father’s blood is under six feet of dirt in Mount Carmel,” Lorenzo said.
He looked over at Bruno.
“Take Mr. Vance into the hallway. Secure his phone, his computer, and every file in his office by midnight. If he speaks to a single federal agent before tomorrow morning, drop him in the river.”
Vance didn't utter a sound as Bruno dragged him out of the room.
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Lorenzo pulled out a chair opposite Marcus and sat down slowly. He reached across the table, grabbed his uncle’s right hand, and slipped the gold lion signet ring off Marcus’s finger.
“You don't get to wear this anymore,” Lorenzo said, slipping the ring into his coat pocket. “Call Enzo. Right now.”
