Chapter 32 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
"Father," the word tore from my throat, raw and fractured.
For ten years, I had believed I was an orphan. For ten years, I had scrubbed grease from cast-iron pans, cleaned the baseboards of arrogant men, and hid my true name beneath layers of apron linen and downcast eyes.
"I'm here, little bird," he said, his voice trembling slightly beneath its gravelly exterior. He pulled me into an embrace that smelled of tobacco, rain, and old paper—the exact scent of the study in Florence where he used to read me stories before the world burned down. "I never stopped watching. But Corrado’s reach was too deep. If I stepped into the light while you were unprotected, they would have used you to bleed the Carbone name dry."
"And instead," Mrs. Moretti remarked coolly, ejecting an empty magazine and slapping a fresh one into her weapon with a practiced snap, "you waited until my son almost got his head blown off."
Lorenzo offered the Moretti matriarch a faint, respectful nod. "You always were fond of dramatic entrances, Giuliana. I simply took notes from the master."
A pathetic moan came from behind the wreckage of the service bar.
Luca’s expression instantly hardened into stone. He stepped away from us, drawing a heavy revolver from the shoulder holster of a fallen guard. His boots crunched over broken crystal as he rounded the bar.
Don Corrado was curled into a ball on the floor, clutching his leg where a ricochet had torn through his tailored trousers. Blood stained his crisp linen trousers, but the real damage was in his eyes—the hollow, wild panic of an emperor realizing his palace was made of matches.
"Luca... please," Corrado wheezed, his fingers trembling as he reached toward Luca’s polished shoes. "The Commission... we had an understanding. Your father and I—"
"You murdered my father," Luca said, his voice so quiet, so deadly calm, it caused the remaining delegates huddled against the walls to shiver. "You fed the Bellinis poison, made them think they could buy the Gold Coast, and used Marco to slit our throats from inside our own house."
Luca pressed the cold steel barrel of the revolver against the bridge of Corrado’s crooked nose.
"Wait," Lorenzo called out, stepping up beside Luca.
Luca didn't lower the gun, but his jaw clenched. "Give me one reason not to paint this marble with his brains, Lorenzo."
"Because dead men don't speak, and Corrado didn't fund this coup on his own," Lorenzo replied grimly. "Look at his ring."
I stepped closer, glancing down at Corrado’s right hand. On his ring finger sat a heavy signet—not the serpent of the Lombard syndicate, nor the bull of Sicily. It was a band of dark, unpolished meteoric iron, carved with the silhouette of a blind raven.
Mrs. Moretti inhaled sharply through her teeth. "The Iron Syndicate. The Zurich shadow banks."
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"He sold out the entire American syndicate to an offshore clearinghouse," Lorenzo said, kicking the serpent cane away from Corrado’s reaching fingers. "The hit on me ten years ago wasn't about street territory. It was about the Carbone Grand Charter. And they won't stop just because Corrado failed here tonight."
Corrado spat a mouthful of red onto the floor, a sickening, broken grin spreading across his wrinkled face. "You're... you're too late, Lorenzo. The transfer order was signed at midnight. By dawn, every asset under the Moretti and Carbone names belongs to them. You won the room... but you lost the city."
