Chapter 4 - The House of LiesBy five o'clock the following morning, the rain had stopped, leaving the gray skies over Long Island clear and frigid.
The Moretti estate stood like a fortress on a hill, its white marble columns and sweeping green lawns bathed in the pale light of dawn. Inside the massive formal living room, warm fire light flickered against mahogany paneling and crystal chandeliers.
Sitting near the fireplace in a velvet armchair, sipping scotch from a crystal glass, was Marco Moretti.
Marco was thirty-eight, dressed in an expensive designer suit, looking at his gold watch every two minutes with quiet impatience.
The heavy mahogany double doors of the living room swung open.
Alessandro walked into the room.
He looked immaculately dressed in a dark navy suit, though his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He carried no weapons, but his posture was that of a man who owned everything his shadow touched.
"Alessandro!" Marco stood up quickly, putting on a worried, sympathetic expression. "Where have you been all night? Luca said you went out into the Bronx alone again! You can't keep doing this to yourself, brother. It's been a year. You need to accept that Elena and Mateo are—"
"They're home, Marco," Alessandro interrupted quietly.
Marco froze. The glass of scotch in his hand trembled slightly, a single drop spilling over the rim onto his sleeve.
"What... what did you say?" Marco stammered, his face losing its color.
Alessandro stepped aside.
Elena walked into the room, wearing a clean ivory coat, holding little Mateo’s hand. Beside them stood seven-year-old Emma, wearing a warm yellow dress and new leather shoes provided by Alessandro’s staff, clutching her mother, Clara, who looked overwhelmed by the opulence of the mansion.
Marco’s jaw went slack. The crystal glass slipped from his fingers, smashing into a dozen sharp shards on the marble hearth!
"Elena..." Marco gasped, taking an involuntary step backward toward the fire. "How... how..."
"How did she escape the cellar you paid Franco ten million dollars to keep her in?" Alessandro finished the sentence for him, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
Marco looked frantically toward the windows, expecting to see Franco’s guards, but saw only Alessandro’s elite tactical team standing posted every three feet along the driveway.
"Alessandro... listen to me!" Marco cried out, his hands held up in surrender, sweat breaking out across his forehead. "It wasn't my idea! The Cortese syndicate forced me! They threatened to kill me if I didn't help them take over the shipping routes!"
"Don't lie to me, Marco," Alessandro said softly, taking a step toward his younger brother. "Franco confessed everything before we put him on a boat to federal custody. You wanted the throne. You couldn't beat me in business, so you tried to break my heart."
"We're brothers!" Marco screamed, falling to his knees as two heavy bodyguards grabbed his arms from behind. "You can't kill your own blood! Think of the family name!"
"You forgot about blood when you left my five-year-old son to eat soup off a concrete floor in the Bronx," Alessandro said, standing right over him.
Alessandro pulled a thick leather folder from his jacket and tossed it onto the floor in front of Marco.
"Those are surrender agreements," Alessandro commanded. "You will sign over every share, every piece of real estate, and every offshore account you own to Mateo’s trust fund. By noon today, you will be on a flight to a private facility in northern Alaska. You will live there under twenty-four-hour guard, and you will never set foot in New York again."
"Alaska?!" Marco gasped, horrified. "You're exiling me?!"
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"Be thankful I still remember we shared a mother," Alessandro whispered coldly. "Sign the paper."
Trembling violently, tears of regret spilling down his cheeks, Marco grabbed the pen and signed his name on every line.
