Chapter 4 - The Blood Debt
The grand dining hall on the fiftieth floor of the DeLuca Tower was built for power.
Massive crystal chandeliers hung from forty-foot ceilings, illuminating a forty-foot mahogany table that had seen generations of syndicate lords divide territories, sign peace treaties, and order executions.
Don Donato Moretti—a sixty-five-year-old man with slick silver hair, a dark tailored pinstripe suit, and eyes like a vulture—sat at the far end of the long table. His hands were folded calmly on the polished wood.
Behind him stood two large guards, both sweating profusely under the gaze of twenty DeLuca soldiers positioned along the perimeter of the room, every single one of them holding submachine guns pointed directly at the visitors.
Marco walked into the hall smoothly. He didn't wear a vest. He didn't carry a visible weapon. He simply walked to the head of the table and sat down, pouring himself a glass of dark red wine from a crystal decanter.
"Donato," Marco said smoothly, taking a slow sip. "You're late for dinner."
"Marco," Donato said, his voice gravelly, aged by decades of cigars and scotch. "We need to talk."
"There is nothing to talk about," Marco said flatly. "You tried to assassinate my seventy-one-year-old mother in my own driveway. You corrupted my security chief. You turned my streets into a war zone. The only reason you walked through my front gate today without twenty lead slugs in your chest is because I wanted to look into your eyes before I erase your family from history."
Donato didn't flinch, but a muscle in his jaw twitched violently.
"I didn't order the hit on your mother, Marco," Donato said flatly.
Marco raised an eyebrow, setting his wine glass down with a soft clink. "Do not insult my intelligence, old man."
"I am telling you the truth," Donato insisted, leaning forward, resting his heavy, gold-ringed hands on the table. "I wanted your harbor contracts, yes. I wanted to force you into a territorial negotiation. But I am an old-school man, Marco! We do not touch mothers! We do not touch wives! We do not touch children! You know my code!"
Marco remained motionless, his dark eyes locked onto the elder Don. "Then who paid Caruso thirty million dollars?"
Donato turned his head slightly toward his guards. "Bring him in."
The heavy double doors opened again. Two Moretti soldiers dragged a young man into the room, kicking his knees out so he collapsed onto his face on the marble floor.
The young man was bruised, covered in cold sweat, his expensive designer clothes torn and filthy.
It was Julian Moretti—Donato’s twenty-four-year-old youngest son and heir.
Julian lay on the floor, sobbing hysterically, his hands bound behind his back with heavy zip-ties.
"My son," Donato said, his voice filled with a sickening mixture of rage and grief. "Julian was running an illegal online gambling ring through Caruso’s hidden accounts. He owed eighty million dollars to an offshore cartel. He thought that if he eliminated your mother, you would go insane with rage, declare war on our family, and kill me... leaving him to inherit my seat and clear his debts."
Marco looked down at the trembling twenty-four-year-old boy lying on the marble floor.
The room descended into a suffocating, terrifying silence.
"Is this true, Julian?" Marco asked, his voice eerily gentle.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mr. DeLuca!" Julian shrieked, pressing his face against the cold floor. "Caruso said it would be easy! He said the old woman was dying anyway! He said nobody would care if the maid died too!"
Crack.
The sound of Marco’s hand striking the mahogany table echoed like a gunshot.
Marco stood up slowly. The air in the room seemed to contract, the oxygen sucked out by the sheer force of his dark, suffocating fury.
"She is not 'the maid,'" Marco whispered, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. "Her name is Lena Carter. And she has more courage in her small finger than your entire bloodline possesses."
Donato stood up slowly from his seat at the end of the table. He pulled a heavy silver revolver from his coat, set it on the mahogany table, and slid it thirty feet down the polished wood until it stopped in front of Marco.
"He is my son, Marco," Donato said, his voice breaking with old age and absolute defeat. "He brought shame to my house. He violated the sacred code of the families. I bring him to you to pay the blood debt. Spare my territory. Spare the rest of my family. Take his life, and our war is finished."
Julian let out a blood-curdling scream of terror, weeping frantically on the floor. "Dad! NO! DAD, PLEASE! DON'T LET HIM KILL ME!"
Marco looked down at the silver revolver resting on the table in front of him.
He reached out, his long fingers picking up the heavy gun, feeling its weight. He stepped out from behind the table and walked slowly toward the sobbing boy lying on the floor.
He stood over Julian, raising the barrel of the revolver, pointing it directly at the back of the boy's head.
The room held its breath.
Beep... beep... beep...
In Marco’s mind, the quiet sound of my heart monitor in the penthouse medical suite rang louder than the roaring thunder of the storm. He remembered my pale, blood-drenched face on the rain-swept driveway. He remembered the faint smile I gave him before I slipped into the dark.
'I did it because Isabella is a human being...' my voice echoed in his memory.
Marco’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Marco lowered the gun.
Donato blinked, stunned. "Marco...?"
"If I kill him here," Marco said softly, his voice echoing off the high crystal chandeliers, "I become the monster he thinks I am. I become a man who spills blood to satisfy his own pride."
He uncocked the revolver, tossed it casually onto the mahogany table, and looked up at Donato.
"Take your pathetic coward of a son," Marco commanded coldly. "Strip him of his name. Strip him of his inheritance. Send him to work the copper mines in South America for the rest of his miserable life. If I ever see his face in this city again, Donato... I will burn your entire family to ash."
May you like
Donato closed his eyes, relief washing over his weathered face like rain. He bowed his head low toward Marco—a gesture of total, unconditional submission.
"Thank you, Don DeLuca," Donato whispered. "It shall be done."
