The dining hall plunged into a stunned silence, broken only by Nico’s ragged sobs. Sergeant Russo, ever procedural, moved swiftly. He collected Nico’s fallen handgun, securing it in an evidence bag.
He then turned his stern gaze on Eli Gable, who was still cowering.
“Eli Gable,” Russo stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Based on these documents and your admitted fraud, I am recommending a federal investigation into tax evasion, embezzlement, and a litany of other charges. You’re facing decades in prison.”
Gable’s face was ashen. He fumbled in his briefcase, pulling out a thick binder of licenses and permits. His hand trembled as he pushed them across the table.
“I… I surrender them all,” Gable stammered, his eyes wide with fear. “I’ll leave. I’ll leave the city. Tonight. Just… no federal charges.”
Russo gave a curt nod. “Consider your options. Now, gather your things. You’re leaving this premises under police escort.”
Gable, terrified, scrambled to pack his few belongings, his bodyguards doing nothing to help. Russo personally walked him out of the brownstone, the front door closing with a definitive thud. The immediate crisis had passed.
I knelt beside Nico, who was still hunched on the dining room floor, his shoulders shaking with the force of his tears. He had just learned his entire life was a lie, his loyalty exploited, his family history rewritten.
I reached out, placing my hand gently on his arm. He flinched, then leaned into my touch.
“Nico,” I said, my voice soft. “It’s okay. I forgive you. All of it.”
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, streaks of tears on his cheeks. “I was so blind, Leo. He made me believe you were stealing, that you were abandoning us.”
“I know,” I said, pulling him into a brotherly embrace. He clung to me, his sobs subsiding into quiet tremors. “He played us both.”
Uncle Sal Callahan, his face now etched with a quiet reverence, cleared his throat. He stepped forward, his voice echoing in the now silent room.
“Brothers,” he said, looking at us. “The Moretti trust is clear. Leo is the head. But the Devlin blood runs through this house just as deep. It always has.”
He looked at the assembled crew, his gaze firm. “Leo Moretti is the legitimate head of this trust, the rightful keeper of this safehouse and this crew. Long live the Moretti family.”
The crew members murmured their assent, their faces reflecting a new understanding, a new solidarity.
Nico finally pulled back from me, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He stood up, his gaze steady, meeting mine.
“My loyalty, Leo,” he said, his voice still thick with emotion, but firm. “My absolute loyalty. To you. My brother.”
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