Chapter 5
The air in the subterranean armory was frigid, smelling of gun oil, damp stone, and copper. In the center of the concrete room, strapped tightly to an iron support pillar with heavy industrial zip-ties, sat Brennan Morretti.
His face was a grotesque mask of dried blood and violet swelling, his white dress shirt torn open at the chest, stripped of his watch, his family pin, and his shoes. Two armed guards stood in the shadows, their assault carbines held at the low ready.
The heavy steel blast door groaned open.
Cassian walked into the vault. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his tailored charcoal vest and white shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up to his forearms to reveal the dark, faded ink from his youth on the docks. In his right hand, he carried a heavy manila folder.
He dragged a metal folding chair across the concrete, the legs shrieking against the floor, and set it down three feet in front of his brother. He sat down, leaning his forearms on his knees.
“Brennan,” Cassian began, his voice dangerously soft. “We shared a cradle in Brooklyn. Our father taught us to shoot with the same rifle behind the lumber yard. Tell me how you ended up putting a leash around our mother.”
Brennan spat a glob of dark blood onto the floor between Cassian’s shoes. He wheezed through his broken jaw, his eyes bloodshot with bitter, festering resentment.
“Because she’s a ghost, Cassian!” Brennan snarled, his voice thick and slurred. “She’s been living in the past for ten years! And you... you’ve gone soft because of her! You wouldn't expand into Atlantic City because the Falcos were 'family friends' of our father! You let fifty million dollars a year rot on the docks because of old loyalties!”
“Our father gave his word to Don Falco thirty years ago,” Cassian replied, not raising his voice an octave. “In this life, a Morretti's word is the only currency that doesn't depreciate.”
“Word doesn't buy politicians, Cassian!” Brennan yelled, thrashing against the pillar, the plastic ties biting into his wrists. “The Falcos are taking the port whether you like it or not! They offered me fifty percent of the logistics routes if I took your seat! Lavinia was the key—she had the signature stamps for your offshore holding companies!”
Cassian opened the manila folder. He pulled out three sheets of paper, holding them up before Brennan’s face.
“The signature stamps,” Cassian said, his controlled pauses heavy as lead. “You mean the power of attorney documents you tried to force Mama to sign on Wednesday night?”
Brennan froze, his breath catching in his throat.
“Greta found the ink pad in the pantry trash, Brennan,” Cassian continued, his ice-blue eyes drilling into his brother’s skull. “You took her thumb while she was half-conscious from hunger and pressed it onto a transfer of the ancestral deed. You wanted to sell the very roof over her head to buy yourself an empire.”
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“Cassian... wait,” Brennan’s bravado cracked, the sudden reality of his death warrant dawning on him. “It was Lavinia’s idea! She drafted the papers! She told me you were going to cut me out of the trust!”
“You cut yourself out, Brennan,” Cassian whispered, rising to his full height. “The moment you let your ambition poison your blood.”
