Chapter 8 - The Final Encounter
Before the extradition process concluded and Enzo was transferred to a federal maximum-security facility in Colorado to serve a thirty-year sentence for racketeering and conspiracy to commit murder, Lorenzo requested a single private meeting in the attorney-client visitation room at the Cook County Jail.
The room was small, stark, and sterile, featuring a thick glass partition dividing the two steel chairs.
When the heavy iron door opened, Enzo stepped inside, wearing an orange jumpsuit and heavy leg irons that clanked loudly against the linoleum floor. His face was gaunt, his dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, his posture completely broken.
He sat down heavily across the glass and picked up the black telephone handset.
Lorenzo picked up his handset.
For a long moment, neither brother spoke. They simply looked at each other—two men who had shared a childhood in the grand halls of Moretti estate, now separated by a wall of bulletproof glass and eleven years of blood.
“You look like him,” Enzo said finally, his voice raspy through the phone speaker. “You look just like Victor used to look when he was angry.”
“I’m not angry, Enzo,” Lorenzo said softly.
Enzo let out a bitter, dry laugh. “You stripped me of everything. My money, my freedom, my name. I’m going to spend the rest of my life in a box in the mountains. If that isn't anger, what is it?”
“It’s justice,” Lorenzo said. “For Dad.”
Enzo’s eyes flashed with a flicker of his old arrogance. “Victor was a monster, Lorenzo! He controlled every breath we took! He decided where we went to school, who we talked to, how we lived! I wanted out! Marcus offered me a way out!”
“And you took it by placing a gun to our father’s head,” Lorenzo said quietly. “Did you ever think about me, Enzo? Did you ever think about what it would do to your twenty-one-year-old brother when he had to stand beside two coffins at Mount Carmel?”
Enzo lowered his eyes, unable to hold Lorenzo’s steady gaze. The arrogance drained from his face, leaving behind only a hollow, pathetic regret.
“I thought... I thought you would just run the legitimate shipping,” Enzo whispered, his voice cracking. “I thought you’d marry, have kids, and live a normal life. I didn't know Marcus would push you into taking over the street operations.”
“You didn't care,” Lorenzo said smoothly. “You were on a beach in Argentina, spending money that was bought with my pain.”
Lorenzo set his telephone handset down on the metal counter.
He looked at his brother through the glass one last time. There were no tears left to shed, no arguments left to settle. The story of the Moretti brothers had reached its absolute, inescapable conclusion.
Lorenzo stood up from his chair.
Enzo frantically grabbed his telephone handset with both hands, pressing his face against the glass.
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“Lorenzo! Wait! Please!” Enzo cried out, his voice muffled by the thick partition. “Lorenzo! Don't leave me here alone!”
Lorenzo did not pick up the phone. He turned his back on his brother, walked out through the heavy steel door, and let the lock click shut behind him.
