Chapter 6
The cold steel barrel of the 1911 hovered two inches from Warren Hale’s forehead.
The patriarch’s eyes flickered, his breathing shallow, but his stubborn arrogance refused to crack completely. "Go ahead, Giulietta. Pull the trigger. Put a bullet in my brain in front of twelve witnesses. See how long the Commission lets a twenty-five-year-old woman run New York once the elders hear you murdered an allied boss."
"The Commission?" Giulietta asked, a quiet, mocking laugh escaping her lips.
She lowered the pistol slightly, turning her gaze toward the glass doors leading to the interior courtyard.
"Don Castiglione," Giulietta called out into the quiet conservatory. "Don Moretti. Please come in."
From the shaded portico, two elderly men in tailored dark suits stepped into the sunlight.
Don Castiglione, seventy-two, with silver hair and a walking stick, was the presiding head of the Five Families Commission. Beside him walked Don Moretti, sixty-eight, the ruthless sovereign of the Chicago freight lines. Behind them walked four Commission enforcers, their faces expressionless, their presence carrying the absolute authority of underworld law.
Warren’s jaw went slack. The blood drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. "Castiglione...? Moretti...? What are you doing here?"
Don Castiglione stopped beside Giulietta, resting his hands on his cane, looking down at Warren with deep, weary disappointment.
"We came to attend a wedding, Warren," Castiglione said, his gravelly voice echoing off the glass. "And to review an audit."
"An audit?" Preston stammered, looking frantically between the two elders.
Don Moretti stepped forward, pulling a thick, leather-bound document from his overcoat. "Thirty-two million dollars, Warren. Diverted from the union pension accounts in Brooklyn and routed through your shell companies in Panama. The accounts Giulietta’s accountants unlocked for us two nights ago."
Warren’s breath caught in his throat. "Moretti... that was an investment vehicle! The returns were scheduled for the third quarter—"
"The returns were scheduled to cover your margin calls with the European cartels, Warren," Castiglione interrupted, his tone hard as iron. "And then there is the matter of Leo Marconi."
The glass room fell deathly silent.
Don Moretti opened the leather folder, drawing out a high-resolution photograph of a handwritten ledger and a bank receipt bearing Warren’s personal wax seal.
"The Commission explicitly forbade internal blood feuds four years ago," Moretti said, his cold eyes drilling into Warren’s skull. "You signed a blood oath before all five families. And forty-eight hours later, you paid five hundred thousand dollars to assassinate the Marconi heir."
Preston buried his face in his trembling hands, dry sobs racking his shoulders. "We’re dead... we’re dead..."
Warren looked from the elders to Giulietta, realizing with horrifying, crystalline clarity that the trap hadn't been sprung this morning in the bridal suite. It had been laid months ago, coordinated with the highest authorities of the American underworld.
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"You set me up," Warren whispered, his voice trembling.
"You set yourself up, Warren," Giulietta replied softly, holstering her weapon beneath her gown. "The day you assumed an orphaned daughter was an easy mark."
