Gable’s voice, cold and triumphant, hung in the air of the parlor. I could hear it through the study door, even from a distance. Nico’s silence had been absolute, a heavy, suffocating thing. Uncle Sal, however, had let out a sharp, choked sound.
When I finally walked into the parlor, Nico stood rigid, his back to me, facing the antique grandfather clock as if it held the answers. His hands were clenched, knuckles white. His whole body trembled.
Uncle Sal sat heavily in his armchair, his face etched with disbelief. He looked older, suddenly.
“That… that snake,” Sal whispered, his voice raspy. “Eli Gable. He played us all for fools.”
He pushed himself up, his eyes meeting mine. There was a new respect in them, mingled with a grim understanding.
“This requires a crew gathering,” Uncle Sal declared, his voice regaining its usual stern authority. “Right now. In the dining hall. By the old syndicate rules, ownership and leadership disputes must be settled with everyone present.”
Messages were sent. The safehouse began to stir with an uneasy tension. Within minutes, the dining hall, usually reserved for large family meals, filled with the Moretti crew. Faces were grim, whispers like rustling leaves.
Twenty minutes later, the front door bell chimed. Eli Gable, looking entirely too self-satisfied, strode into the parlor. He was flanked by two burly bodyguards, their presence an insult. He carried a leather briefcase, no doubt filled with his fraudulent papers.
He smiled, a reptilian curl of his lips, glancing at the gathered faces. He had no idea his voice, his very words, had already turned this entire room against him.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, his voice smooth and confident, “I believe we have some urgent matters to discuss regarding the future of this establishment.”
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled crew, his eyes lingering on Nico, then on me. He misread the silence entirely. He thought it was respect. It was barely contained fury.
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