Chapter 8 - The Ledger of Ghosts
Luca gestured with his left hand.
Instantly, the crystal chandeliers dimmed, plunging the ballroom into theatrical shadow. At the far end of the room, a massive projection screen dropped from the ceiling recess, glowing to life with brilliant high-definition clarity.
"Three years ago," Luca spoke into the silence, his voice steady, rhythmic, and devastating, "my father, Antonio Moretti, died in his bed. We were told it was a heart attack. We mourned him. We gave him the largest funeral this city had seen in forty years."
A document appeared on the screen—a scanned page from an offshore medical supply ledger, highlighting an unregulated purchase of succinylcholine by a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands.
Beneath it was a bank transfer signed by Carmine Romano.
"And here," Luca continued, "is the recording recovered from the private sitting room of this estate forty-eight hours ago."
The sound system crackled, and then Bianca’s unmistakable, haughty voice filled the room:
*"The old man took three minutes to stop kicking, Mother. Whitaker said the paralytic was completely undetectable. Once Luca takes the thallium for another month, the shipping corridors belong entirely to Papa. He’ll sign the power of attorney without even realizing he’s doing it. That little idiot maid Emma suspecting nothing—she brings him the coffee every morning like an obedient dog."*
The ballroom erupted into chaos.
Men shouted. Women screamed. Several captains from the Romano faction reached for their jackets, only to find the cold barrels of suppressed submachine guns pressed against the bases of their skulls by the waitstaff who had surrounded them in silence.
Bianca stumbled backward, clutching her throat, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror. "No... no, that’s a fake! It’s an AI recording! Luca, she fabricated it! She’s trying to destroy us!"
"Shut up!" Carmine roared, his face purple, his hand clawing at his chest. "Luca, listen to me! This is business! You can't execute an entire family in front of two hundred people! The Commission will destroy you! The other five families will wipe Westchester off the map!"
"The Commission?" Luca smiled, a terrifying, humorless expression.
The projection screen changed again.
This time, it showed a live video feed from a secure boardroom in Manhattan. Sitting around the long mahogany table were five elderly men in dark suits—the heads of the five governing families of the Eastern Syndicate.
The oldest among them, Don Bernardo Lucchese, looked directly into the camera.
"Carmine," the old Don said, his voice crackling through the ballroom speakers like dry leaves. "You used poison against a boss. You used poison against Antonio, and you tried to poison his son. Worse, you brought an outsider’s riding crop down on a civilian girl within the sanctuary of a boss’s house. You have broken every ancient law of this table."
Don Bernardo leaned forward, his eyes cold as ice.
"The Commission recognizes Luca Moretti’s right of total retribution. May God have mercy on your souls, because the families will not."
The screen went black.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Carmine collapsed onto a velvet chair, his mouth hanging open, all the arrogance draining out of him like dirty water.
Bianca fell to her knees at the base of the dais, weeping hysterically, her manicured hands clawing at the marble steps. "Luca! Luca, please! I loved you! I did it for us! We could have had everything! Please don't kill me!"
Luca stood up slowly. He walked down the three steps until he stood directly over her.
He reached down, took her left hand, and slid his mother’s diamond engagement ring off her finger.
"You never loved anything but power, Bianca," Luca said, his voice entirely flat. "And you are about to learn what happens when that power is stripped away down to the bone."
He turned to Dante, who stood waiting by the archway.
"Take Bianca and Sophia to the federal courthouse in Brooklyn," Luca ordered. "Deliver them to the United States Attorney’s office along with the full contents of the encrypted drive. Let them spend the next thirty-five years in a federal penitentiary for conspiracy, racketeering, and attempted murder. Let them discover what it feels like to scrub floors for eight cents an hour."
Bianca shrieked as two guards dragged her across the parquet floor, her crimson dress tearing against the shattered glass, her screams fading down the long marble corridor until the front doors slammed shut.
Luca turned his gaze back to Carmine Romano.
"As for you, Carmine," Luca murmured, drawing his Sig Sauer from his jacket. "You killed my father. And federal prison is far too comfortable for a man who dies of a broken heart."
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The shot was single, clean, and echoed through the ballroom like thunder.
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