Chapter 3 - The Traitor at the TableThe private study on the third floor of the Castellano estate looked more like a war room than a home office.
Digital monitors lined the mahogany walls, displaying security camera footage from every corner of the Golden Rose, intercepted phone logs, and financial spreadsheets tracing back months of corporate transactions.
I sat in a high-backed leather chair beside Marco’s desk, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater he had provided. My left arm was supported by a black silk sling, but the painkillers Dr. Vance had administered kept the worst of the agony at bay.
Standing in front of the massive oak desk were four of Marco’s senior captains, their faces pale and tense. Among them was Alistair Ferraro, whose hand rested casually near his shoulder holster, and a younger, sharply dressed man named Vincent Moretti, who managed the Castellano family’s extensive restaurant and hospitality acquisitions.
“Go through it again, Alistair,” Marco commanded, leaning back in his leather chair, his fingers steepled together beneath his chin.
Alistair cleared his throat, stepping forward and tapping a remote control. The large central screen flickered to life, displaying high-definition surveillance footage from the Golden Rose’s kitchen hallway at 8:10 PM—just twenty minutes before the shot was fired.
On the screen, a figure in a standard black-and-white waitstaff uniform could be seen slipping out the rear service exit, carrying a small black burner phone.
“That’s Leo,” Vincent Moretti murmured, his voice tight with disbelief. “Leo Martinez. He’s been running the back-of-house logistics for the Golden Rose for four years. His brother is one of our most trusted truck drivers in the North End.”
“Leo was seen leaving the alley three minutes before the sniper took position across the street,” Alistair added, clicking to another slide displaying phone call logs. “And look at the financial trail. Three days ago, an unrecorded wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars hit an offshore account registered in Leo’s mother’s maiden name. The originating bank? A shell corporation tied directly to the Outfit’s primary rival on the West Side—Sal Maroni.”
The room went dead silent.
Sal Maroni. The aging, desperate boss of the West Side syndicate, who had been trying to muscle in on Marco’s shipping contracts for over a year.
Marco didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam his fist on the desk. He simply unclasped his hands, picked up a heavy silver pen, and turned it slowly between his fingers.
“Leo didn't just sell me out,” Marco said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “He compromised the security of my staff. He put innocent people in the crossfire.” He slowly raised his slate-gray eyes, fixing them directly on me. “Elena. You worked closely with Leo. Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior this week?”
I swallowed hard, my mind racing back over the grueling shifts of the past few days.
“He was nervous,” I recalled, realization dawning on me. “On Tuesday, he kept checking his phone near the walk-in freezer—which is a dead zone for cell reception unless you’re standing right by the exterior vent. And… and he asked me specifically if I was covering the private alcove section on Thursday night instead of my usual main dining room station.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “He planned for you to be in the line of fire. Or perhaps he knew you were observant enough to notice if someone else took your place.”
“Where is Leo now?” Alistair asked, his hand tightening on his holster.
“He thinks he’s safe,” Marco replied, standing up from his desk with slow, predatory grace. “He clocked out at nine PM, claiming he had food poisoning, and checked into a motel near O’Hare airport under a false name. He’s waiting for Maroni’s wire to clear in full before he skips town.”
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Marco walked around the desk, stopping just inches from my chair. He looked down at me, his expression softening by a fraction—just enough for me to see the raw, simmering protectiveness beneath his icy exterior.
“Alistair, Vincent,” Marco ordered, never breaking eye contact with me. “Bring Leo to the basement lounge. Do it quietly. I want to have a conversation with him about loyalty.”
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