After Surviving a Bribe-Free $40 Million Syndicate Brake-Sabotage Ambush, a Rebuilding Mafia Boss Faces His Traitorous Protégé Step-Brother and an African Grey Parrot in a Unanimous Battle for Rede...
The trip back to Chicago was quick, a blur of anticipation and grim determination. Sal, though terrified, sat beside me, his resolve hardening with every mile. He knew his only path to safety now lay in full disclosure.
The syndicate elders convened in the same ornate boardroom where Julian had tried to destroy me. This time, the mood was different. The air was thick with tension, not just curiosity. The smear campaign had done its damage, but the lingering memory of the parrot’s precise mimicry still haunted the room.
I stood before them, Sal beside me. Mr. Mancini, the oldest and most respected elder, nodded for me to begin.
I played the enhanced audio for them, the isolated engine hum first, then the parrot’s full mimicry, now clearer than ever. “Cut the lines. Make it look like an accident. Forty million reasons to disappear.”
Then, Sal spoke. His voice, though still trembling, gained strength as he recounted Julian’s visit, the midnight meeting, the fifty thousand dollars in cash, the explicit instructions to sever the brake lines on my vehicle. He described the make and model of my car, the exact location where he’d done the work. Every detail matched perfectly.
He even explained his reasoning, his fear, his misguided belief that Julian was genuinely trying to scare me, not kill me. He spoke of his subsequent flight, the years spent hiding in the abandoned garage, haunted by his actions.
When Sal finished, the silence in the room was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop. The elders stared at Julian’s empty seat, then at me, then at Sal. The pieces clicked into place. The “madman” was telling the truth. The loyal protégé was a would-be murderer.
Mr. Mancini slowly pushed himself up from his chair. His gaze swept over the faces of the other elders. Their expressions confirmed it. There was no more doubt.
“Julian Moretti,” Mancini’s voice boomed, echoing the weight of centuries of syndicate tradition. “Is hereby stripped of all standing, all assets, and declared *persona non grata* within these territories.”
A shudder went through Sal. *Persona non grata* was more than just excommunication; it was a death sentence in the underworld.
“Furthermore,” Mancini continued, his voice lowering, “for attempting the murder of a senior member and sowing discord within the family, he is marked.”
The elders murmured in agreement. The verdict was unanimous, absolute.
Just as the meeting concluded, a frantic call came in. Julian, having received word that Sal had resurfaced, had vanished. His house was empty, his phones disconnected. He knew the game was up. He had fled.
“He’s headed north,” one of my contacts reported, his voice urgent. “Into Wisconsin. Rented a cabin up in the Northwoods. Looks like he’s trying to disappear into the storms coming in.”
A massive electrical storm, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in decades, was indeed rolling across the Midwest. The sky outside the boardroom windows was already turning an ominous shade of bruised purple. Julian, cornered and desperate, was fleeing into the teeth of it.
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