If you breathe a word, Mr. Moretti, we both die before we hit the floor.
The realization settled in my gut, cold and heavy. Elena wasn’t just some disgruntled employee; she was a professional. My entire understanding of the night had been flipped.
“Brody?” I repeated, my voice hoarse. “What does a journalist have to do with Marco leading a hit squad?”
Elena didn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “He’s not directly involved in tonight’s activities. But his investigation is putting pressure on Salvatore. He’s desperate, Vince. Desperate men do desperate things.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes, the streetlights painting fleeting streaks across the sedan’s interior. My mind raced, trying to process this new information. Salvatore, my boss of thirty years, sending my nephew to kill me. And my maid, a journalist’s spy, saving my life.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. “I need to make some calls. Get to a safehouse. Assemble the crew.”
“They won’t answer,” Elena said quietly.
I ignored her, my fingers flying across the keypad. First, Silvio Rossi, my most trusted capo. I’d personally brought him up, covered his debts, taught him everything. The phone rang three times before going straight to voicemail.
I tried again. Same result.
Then Antonio, my driver of fifteen years. He always answered, no matter the hour. His line rang twice, then disconnected with a sharp click.
My jaw tightened. “What do you mean they won’t answer?”
“Salvatore moves fast, Vince,” Elena explained. “He controls the channels. The loyalty. He knew you’d call.”
I dialed Sal, another lieutenant, who owed me for a gambling debt I’d wiped clean last year. Voicemail. Then Frankie, my muscle, whom I’d bailed out of a federal bust three years ago. Disconnected. Each failed call was a small, sharp stab.
“What has he done?” I muttered, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window.
Elena navigated a turn, pulling the sedan into a darker, quieter street. “By midnight, he had a syndicate-wide memo circulating. Accusing you of embezzlement.”
“Embezzlement?” I scoffed. “From what?”
“The crew’s pension fund,” she replied, her voice devoid of emotion. “He claims you siphoned off $4.5 million. He’s framing you, Vince.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and absurd. $4.5 million. The pension fund. It was the lowest blow, striking at the one thing that bound the men together beyond fear and ambition: their families’ futures. Salvatore knew exactly how to turn men against each other, twisting loyalty into bitter resentment.
My decades of unwavering service, my fierce protection of my men, the risks I’d taken for the Falcone syndicate—all of it erased. In a single hour, Salvatore had spun a tale so toxic, so insidious, that my closest allies were convinced I was a thief, a betrayer of their trust. The phone in my hand felt suddenly heavy, a dead weight in a world that had gone completely silent.
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