Chapter 9 - The Trial of Salvatore
Two weeks later, the morning sun rose over the Long Island Sound, painting the gray water in brilliant streaks of silver and gold.
In the subterranean wine cellar beneath the main estate—a space lined with ancient brick arches, iron racks of vintage champagne, and a heavy reinforced steel door—Salvatore Moretti sat tied to a wooden chair.
His silk shirt was torn, his knuckles bruised, his slicked-back hair messy and wild. Standing before him was Marco, holding a thick manila folder, while Lorenzo stood near the entrance, dressed in a sharp black overcoat, smoking a cigar.
"You couldn't accept it, could you, Salvatore?" Lorenzo spoke through the blue haze of smoke, his voice dangerously calm.
Salvatore spat blood onto the concrete floor, glaring at his older brother with raw, venomous hatred. "She's a bastard, Lorenzo! You gave away the northern territory to the Russians just to buy peace for a three-year-old brat! You’re weak! You’ve lost your mind over a woman you threw out three years ago!"
"I didn't give away the northern territory," Lorenzo corrected smoothly. "I took Dmitri Tarasov’s distribution rights in New Jersey as compensation for his surveillance."
He signaled to Marco.
Marco opened the manila folder and dropped three photographs onto Salvatore’s lap.
They were surveillance photos taken forty-eight hours ago outside a private diner in Hoboken. They showed Salvatore sitting in a booth with two lieutenants from the Russian syndicate, handing over a blue flash drive containing the security shift rotations and camera blind spots of the Moretti estate.
Salvatore’s breath caught in his throat. His arrogance vanished, replaced by the sickening, paralyzing realization that his plot had been tracked from the very second it was conceived.
"You sold my daughter's bedroom coordinates to Dmitri," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a register so cold, so terrifyingly flat, that the cellar seemed to lose all heat. "You told him that if he struck the third floor while I was in Manhattan, you would assume the Don’s seat and grant him the docks."
"Lorenzo... listen to me," Salvatore stammered, his voice cracking into a frantic, desperate whine as he struggled against the heavy ropes. "I’m your brother! Your own flesh and blood! We swore an oath on our father's grave! You can't kill your own brother!"
Lorenzo took a slow draw of his cigar, exhaling the smoke toward the brick ceiling.
"Our father died because his brother betrayed him, Salvatore," Lorenzo said, looking down at him with absolute, pitiless finality. "Did you think I forgot the lesson? In this family, treason has only one sentence. But because you carry my mother’s blood, I will not put you in the ground."
Salvatore blinked, a flicker of desperate hope flaring in his eyes. "You... you’re sparing me?"
"You are boarding a cargo vessel at pier six in one hour," Lorenzo told him. "Destination is an iron ore mining facility in northern Siberia. The captain has orders: if you ever set foot on North American soil again, you will be shot on sight. Your accounts are seized, your name is erased from the family registry, and as far as this city is concerned, Salvatore Moretti died of a heart attack this morning."
Lorenzo turned on his heel and walked toward the heavy steel door.
May you like
"Lorenzo! Please! Don't do this! Lorenzo!" Salvatore’s frantic screams echoed off the brick arches as the heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the noise with an absolute, crushing finality.
Lorenzo climbed the stone stairs toward the sunlight, leaving the last shadow of his past locked in the dark below.
