Chapter 8
His office fell into a suffocating silence as Salvatore Moretti collapsed. His chair clattered backward, scattering papers across the polished mahogany desk. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the room erupted.
"Salvatore!" Raffaele Mancini dropped to his knees, pressing two trembling fingers against his Don's throat. The underboss rarely faltered, but his eyes widened in panic when he found the pulse—weak, irregular, fading.
Marcello Esposito was already on the phone, his voice sharp and steady despite the unease gnawing at his chest. "Bring Dr. Lorenzo. Now. And not a word leaves this building."
Salvatore's breath rattled, shallow and strained. His skin had gone pale, a ghostly shadow of the man who had ruled entire cities with fear.
Dr. Lorenzo arrived in less than fifteen minutes, his leather case swinging at his side. The seasoned physician's gaze swept the room, narrowing on the unconscious Don.
"Everyone out. Except Marcello and Raffaele."
The guards obeyed. Raffaele and Marcello helped lift Salvatore onto the leather couch while the doctor unpacked his instruments. Electrodes, syringes, monitors—he worked swiftly, muttering under his breath as he studied the vitals.
"This isn't exhaustion," he finally said, his frown deepening. "Irregular heartbeat, muscle weakness, shallow breathing—no, this is deliberate. Poison."
The word landed like a gunshot.
Marcello's jaw tightened. Poison meant betrayal. And betrayal meant exposure. If word leaked that Salvatore had been felled this way, the sharks circling their empire—both inside and outside—would smell blood.
He stepped closer, his voice quiet but edged like steel. "Doctor, this diagnosis stays here. If you breathe it beyond these walls, I will consider it treason."
Dr. Lorenzo hesitated, then nodded curtly.
Raffaele's hands curled into fists. Fury radiated from him in waves, but Marcello could already see the recklessness boiling in his eyes. If the underboss lost control now, they would have a massacre before they had clarity.
Raffaele shot to his feet, pacing. "This came from inside. Someone close enough to touch his glass, his food. I'll find them—I'll rip the truth out of their throat."
Marcello's voice was steady, but firm. "Lash out blindly and we destroy ourselves faster than the enemy. Salvatore built this empire on patience, not chaos."
"Patience?" Raffaele roared. "Our Don was poisoned, and you want me to wait?"
But then his voice faltered. Memory struck him like a hammer.
He had been standing by the entrance earlier, watching as Salvatore arrived at the club. A young waiter had approached, offering a crystal glass of brandy on a silver tray. Salvatore had taken it without hesitation, sipping as he strode toward his office.
That waiter. Pietro.
Raffaele's stomach turned cold. His hands clenched at his sides, no longer just with rage—but with certainty.
The door burst open before he could speak further.
Bianca Moretti swept into the room, her heels striking the marble floor like a challenge. Her eyes widened when she saw her brother pale and motionless on the couch. For a moment, the fire in her chest faltered.
"Salvatore…" her voice broke. She moved to his side, brushing back his hair with trembling fingers.
Marcello approached carefully. "Bianca, you should not be here. This is dangerous ground."
Her gaze snapped up, blazing. "Don't you dare treat me like a guest in my own bloodline. I will not be kept in the dark."
Raffaele gave her a grim nod, his fury aligning with her defiance. "Tell her, Marcello. Tell her what you're so afraid of admitting."
"Poison," Raffaele growled before the consigliere could stop him.
Bianca's heart lurched. Poison meant enemies within their walls. And if the Spanish were truly behind it, then the bloodbath was only beginning.
The underground chamber beneath the club reeked of sweat and fear. Pietro was strapped to a steel chair, his face bloodied from Raffaele's fist.
"You were seen serving the Don tonight," Raffaele snarled, raising a hammer. "You gave him the drink. You tell me what you put in it, or you'll be spitting your teeth across this floor."
"I swear—I know nothing!" Pietro sobbed, chest heaving.
Marcello stood in the shadows, arms folded. His eyes never left Pietro's trembling face. He disliked the mess, but information was worth more than mercy.
The hammer came down on Pietro's fingers with a sickening crack. His scream echoed off the concrete walls.
"Talk," Raffaele demanded.
"I-It wasn't me!" Pietro wept. "It was a message… from the Spanish. They said the Don had to fall before the next shipment! I swear on my life!"
Marcello's gaze sharpened. The Spaniards again. Always the Spaniards. But whether Pietro spoke the truth—or simply what would save him—remained uncertain.
It was past midnight when the alarms blared. Red lights pulsed through the corridors, bathing the club in a hellish glow. Guards shouted, rushing to their posts, weapons drawn.
Marcello and Raffaele sprinted into the security room. On the monitors, a hooded figure moved swiftly through the underground tunnels. Tunnels only the famiglia should know.
"Impossible," Marcello muttered. "Those passages are mapped only by us."
"Then someone talked," Raffaele snarled, slamming his fist against the desk. His bloodshot eyes burned with rage.
Marcello leaned closer to the screen, studying the intruder's movements. Calm, precise, unhurried. Whoever this was, they didn't come blindly.
Raffaele growled the words that sealed the night's fate: "Seal the exits. No one leaves."