Chapter 6 - The Judgment of the Capos
The grand library of the Moretti estate had been transformed into an impromptu syndicate tribunal.
The heavy oak doors were bolted shut from the inside. Around the thirty-foot mahogany table sat the six senior caporegimes who controlled the Moretti maritime syndicate, along with Frank Callahan, the family’s chief corporate litigator.
At the head of the table stood Dominic. He no longer needed a cane. The adrenaline of ultimate betrayal had locked his muscles into a state of cold, razor-sharp fury.
In the center of the room, standing unbound but surrounded by four armed guards, was Eleanor Moretti.
Her black dress was still immaculate, her spine still straight, but the aura of untouchable invincibility had been completely stripped away from her.
“Play the recording, Frank,” Dominic commanded quietly.
Frank Callahan tapped his laptop.
The crystal-clear audio of Eleanor’s conversation in the conservatory echoed off the oak paneling: “My husband died of natural cardiac arrest... You think the Moretti family will turn against their matriarch for a dead girl from Columbia?”
When the audio cut out, the library was so silent that the ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like a sledgehammer against stone.
Old Salvatore Vane, the senior-most capo who had served Dominic’s father for forty years, slowly stood up. His weathered face was dark with a profound, terrifying wrath. He looked at Eleanor as if she were a corpse that had crawled out of an unholy grave.
“You murdered our Don, Eleanor,” Salvatore said, his voice trembling with ancient rage. “You poisoned the man who gave you his name, his empire, and his absolute trust. And then you tried to murder his son to cover your tracks.”
Eleanor turned her gaze onto Salvatore, her chin lifting with defiant pride.
“I built this syndicate with Vittorio!” Eleanor shouted, her voice finally breaking into harsh, frantic volume. “When the federal prosecutors closed in, when the unions rioted in ninety-eight, I was the one who made the hard choices! Vittorio grew soft in his old age! He wanted to turn our shipping lanes over to the federal authorities! I preserved House Moretti!”
“You preserved yourself!” Dominic roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table with a concussive thud that made the crystal decanters rattle.
He stepped around the table, stopping three feet from his mother.
“You didn't kill my father for the syndicate,” Dominic whispered, his baritone dropping into sub-zero granite. “You killed him because he found out you were draining our offshore accounts to build a separate empire where you didn't have to share power with anyone. And you tried to kill me because I started asking questions about his medical records.”
Eleanor looked up into her son’s eyes. For a fraction of a second, something resembling human regret flickered across her features, before hardening once more into stone.
“Do your worst, Dominic,” Eleanor hissed. “Kill your mother. See how the capos react when they realize the hand that feeds them is dripping in matriarchal blood.”
Dominic did not draw a weapon. He didn't strike her.
He turned his back on her, walking slowly toward the large stone fireplace.
“Under the sovereign laws of the Moretti syndicate,” Dominic announced, his voice ringing with undisputed, terrifying authority, “trial for treason and patricide requires immediate, unappealable sentencing by the council.”
He turned back, looking at Salvatore Vane and the five senior capos.
“What say the council?”
Salvatore Vane did not hesitate. He drew his heavy gold signet ring from his finger, placing it flat onto the mahogany table.
“Guilty of treason. Guilty of patricide. Sentence: Perpetual Banishment and Civil Death.”
One by one, the remaining five capos placed their rings onto the table.
“Banishment,” they chanted in unison.
Dominic looked down at his mother.
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“You will be taken to the isolated stone villa on the cliffs of Maine before nightfall,” Dominic said, his voice cold as an open grave. “You will have no communication with the outside world, no access to our accounts, and no servants. You will live out the rest of your natural days in total obscurity, remembering that your name has been erased from the history of House Moretti.”
Two armed guards stepped forward, taking Eleanor by the arms. She did not scream. She did not fight. She simply cast one final, venomous look at Avery Quinn standing by the doorway before she was marched out into the blinding snow.
