Chapter 2 - The Shattered Gala
The sound of shattering crystal was legendary among the Barrett family, but tonight, the sound of silence was worse.
Across the Charles River, in the soaring glass conservatory filled with imported white orchids and three hundred members of Boston’s high caste, the news arrived not with gunfire, but with a four-sentence phone call from Marco Vane.
By the time my sleek armored Maybach tore through the slush on Storrow Drive, my dashboard was lighting up with secure comms. My younger brother, Anthony, was practically vibrating with fury through the Bluetooth speakers.
“Are you out of your psychotic mind, Dominic?” Anthony’s voice filled the cabin, harsh and strained. “Senator Barrett is threatening to pull every harbor permit our logistics arm holds. Salvatore—our uncle—is already gathering the capos in the private lounge. They think you’ve lost your grip. They think the feds got to you!”
“Let them think whatever keeps them awake tonight,” I replied smoothly, checking the rearview mirror.
Behind us, a second armored Suburban carried Elena and our four sons. She had fought me, of course. She had threatened to scream for the police in the lobby of the restaurant until I leaned down, caught her by the waist, and whispered the brutal truth against her ear:
*“If the police get involved, Sloane Barrett’s family will have your name in the morning papers. If Salvatore finds out I have four heirs living unprotected in an apartment, you won't survive the week. You come with me to the estate tonight, Elena, or I will put fifty men around your building and carry you out in front of your neighbors.”*
She had looked at the boys, looked at the cold certainty in my eyes, and folded her pride into survival.
“Dominic!” Anthony barked. “Sloane is standing in the green room in a twelve-thousand-dollar gown! Her father is talking to the commissioner right now!”
“Tell the commissioner that if he opens an inquiry into the docks, I will release the offshore ledgers from his 2022 campaign,” I said coldly. “Tell Sloane I apologize for the inconvenience, and that her father’s offshore accounts will receive a five-million-dollar courtesy fee by midnight. If she opens her mouth to the press, double the fee and cut off their family's security detail.”
“Who is she?” Anthony suddenly asked, his tone dropping from frantic anger to suspicious dread. “Dominic. Marco told me you saw a ghost. Tell me you didn't do what I think you did.”
“Clear the primary wing of the manor,” I commanded, ignoring his question. “Have Maria prepare four bedrooms on the third floor. No—one large suite with connecting rooms. And call Dr. Chen. I want a full medical team on standby at the compound within forty-five minutes.”
“A medical team? Are you wounded?”
“Just do it, Anthony.”
I cut the call.
I turned my head toward the tinted glass behind me. Through the partition, I could see Elena sitting rigid in the back of the trailing vehicle, her arms wrapped around Julian and Matteo, while Leo and Lucas stared wide-eyed out the window at the flashing lights of Boston disappearing into the dark woodlands of Dover.
The Moretti estate was a fortress. Built by my great-grandfather in 1928, it sat on forty heavily wooded acres behind twelve-foot wrought-iron fences, equipped with thermal cameras, underground bunkers, and thirty seasoned guards who answered only to me. It had been my sanctuary and my prison.
Tonight, it was becoming an ark.
The heavy iron gates parted smoothly as the convoy entered the winding, tree-lined driveway. Snow was beginning to drift down, dusting the slate roof of the manor in white. When the Maybach rolled to a stop beneath the stone portico, the heavy front doors swung open. Anthony stood on the threshold, his dark coat flapping in the freezing wind, his expression carved from stone.
I stepped out into the biting air, buttoning my jacket over my chest.
The door of the Suburban opened. Elena stepped out first. She did not look at the grand limestone pillars, the fleet of black luxury vehicles, or the armed men stationed at the perimeter. Her eyes remained locked on me—defiant, terrified, and painfully familiar.
Then, one by one, the four boys scrambled out into the cold.
They stood in the amber glow of the lanterns. Matching coats. Dark hair swept back by the winter breeze. Four small silhouettes against the vast, brutal wealth of the Moretti dynasty.
Anthony stopped dead in his tracks.
The cigarette he was about to light slipped from his fingers, falling into the pristine snow. He stared at the boys, then at Elena, and finally at me.
“Dio mio,” Anthony whispered, crossing himself involuntarily. “Dominic... they’re you.”
May you like
“They are Morettis,” I corrected him, stepping between my brother and the family I had just reclaimed from the shadows. “And anyone who breathes a word of their existence outside these walls before sunrise will answer to me with their life.”
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