When a Ruthless Syndicate Boss Gaslights Her 64-Year-Old Veteran Fixer After Locking Her 4-Year-Old Stepson With a Giant Python to Seize $45 Million in Mob Assets, an Accidental Document Discovery...
Claudia’s threats faded into the hum of the penthouse. She stood in the doorway, disarmed and exposed, but her rage was a palpable thing. I knew she had loyal lieutenants scattered across the city, men who would blindly follow her orders, no matter how depraved. We couldn’t waste a second.
“Vinnie,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Get Leo out of here. Take him to the safe house. Call Marco. Have him prep a car.”
Vinnie nodded, his face grim. He knelt beside Leo, speaking to him in a surprisingly gentle tone. The python, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, slowly began to uncoil from around the boy. It slithered quietly into a dark corner of the room, becoming almost invisible.
“What about her?” Vinnie asked, glancing at Claudia, who was now fumbling for her phone.
“She doesn’t leave this penthouse,” I stated. “Not until the Commission hears what she tried to do.”
I pulled out my own, older model cell phone. It wasn’t a burner. This was my direct line, reserved for emergencies of this magnitude. I scrolled through my contacts, finding the one number that mattered most.
“Who are you calling, old man?” Claudia spat, her eyes narrowed. “No one cares about your fabricated evidence.”
“Don Sal Moretti,” I replied, pressing the call button. The name hung in the air, thick with unspoken power.
Claudia froze. Her hand, midway to her own phone, dropped to her side. The Underworld Commission wasn’t just a regulatory body; it was the supreme court of our world. Don Sal Moretti was its senior chairman, a man whose word was law, whose judgment was absolute.
The phone rang twice, then a gruff voice answered. “Callahan. To what do I owe this distinct pleasure?”
“Don Sal,” I said, keeping my voice even, respectful. “I need an emergency tribunal sit-down. Immediately. A matter of grave importance concerning the DeMarco estate and a direct breach of the code.”
I glanced at Claudia, who was staring at me, her face pale, a flicker of genuine fear now in her eyes. She knew the gravity of invoking the Commission, especially Don Sal himself.
“Emergency?” Don Sal repeated, a pause on the line. “Artie, you know what that means. You better have something substantial. No wasting the Commission’s time.”
“I have physical evidence, Don Sal,” I affirmed. “A hand-signed order to starve an animal. And high-definition video footage of a syndicate chief attempting to orchestrate the murder of an heir. A four-year-old child.”
A silence descended on the line, heavier than any other. Then, Don Sal’s voice, colder, harder. “Tonight. My club. Nine o’clock. Be there. And bring the evidence. And the child. And the snake.”
“Understood, Don Sal,” I said, and ended the call.
I looked at Claudia, whose defiance had crumbled into a desperate, hollow stare. Her loyal lieutenants wouldn’t be able to help her now. The Underworld Commission had been summoned.
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