Chapter 8
The grand pavilion behind the estate was an imposing structure of limestone pillars and open archways, overlooking the manicured lawns and the dense pine forest beyond. Beneath the vaulted roof sat twenty-four senior capos and lieutenants of the Morretti syndicate, dressed in formal dark suits, their faces grim under the bright afternoon sun.
At the head of the stone table sat Cassian Morretti.
To his right stood Frank; to his left, four armed enforcers.
The heavy iron gates of the pavilion swung open, and two guards dragged Brennan into the courtyard.
Brennan was handcuffed behind his back, his face swollen and purple, wearing a coarse gray prison jumpsuit. Behind him, two more guards escorted Lavinia, her designer dress replaced by a plain white institutional gown, her head bowed in humiliating silence.
They were forced onto their knees on the flagstones before the council.
A collective murmur of disgust ran through the assembled capos. In the Morretti organization, business rivalries were handled with lead and iron, but mistreating the matriarch who had financed their first legal enterprises was an unforgivable sin against the family's sacred bloodline.
Cassian rose to his full height. His baritone voice cut through the garden air like a razor blade.
“Capos of the Morretti house,” Cassian spoke, his American accent flat, commanding, and absolute. “You are called here today to witness the judgment of treason.”
He pointed a single, unyielding finger at his younger brother.
“This man,” Cassian continued, “conspired with our enemies in Atlantic City. He staged an ambush to take my life on the highway. He forced our mother into a root cellar, starved her for three days, and attempted to steal her thumbprint to sign away our ancestral land.”
Capo Silvio, the oldest soldier at the table, slammed his fist onto the stone. “Death! Under the old laws of Brooklyn, a son who strikes his mother has no grave!”
“Death is too clean for a traitor, Silvio,” Cassian replied smoothly.
He turned his eyes to Lavinia.
“And this woman,” Cassian said, every word dripping with cold disgust, “placed a dog leash around the neck of the woman who gave her a home. She sought sixty million dollars in blood money to flee to Switzerland.”
Lavinia lifted her tear-stained face, crying out toward the council. “Have mercy! Please, I was seduced by his promises! I am a victim in this!”
Cassian didn't even blink. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a heavy brass key and an official, notarized document stamped with the seal of the New Jersey Department of Corrections.
“Your marriage to me is dissolved by decree of the Syndicate Charter,” Cassian declared. “Your assets are seized and transferred into an endowment for our domestic staff. You are officially an outcast.”
He looked at Frank.
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“Take Lavinia to the federal holding facility in Newark,” Cassian commanded. “Hand her over to the US Attorney's office alongside the full financial records of her offshore shell companies. Let her spend the next thirty years in a federal penitentiary explaining where the money went.”
Lavinia shrieked, clawing at the stone as two guards hauled her to her feet, dragging her kicking and screaming across the lawn until her cries vanished behind the iron gates.
