Chapter 4
The crisp, high-definition audio from the tablet’s speakers echoed across the sunlit pool terrace, silencing every single conversation. The natural, cinematic lighting seemed to spotlight the device as it rested on the wet tiles, broadcasting a conversation that was never meant to be heard.
"The boy is always by the pool," a deep, unmistakable voice played from the tablet. It was Thomas Moretti. "If he falls in, Valentina will lose her mind. It will prove to the commission that she is a mother first, and a boss second."
"And if she doesn't break?" a second voice responded—the arrogant, distinct tone of Marcus Hale.
"Then we make sure he doesn't come back up," Thomas’s recorded voice replied coldly. "We'll stage it to look like an accident. The Hales take the territory, and I take back my seat at the head of the table. Are we clear?"
"Crystal clear, old man," Marcus’s voice affirmed.
The recording looped back to the beginning. The crowd of white American wedding guests, capos, and bodyguards stood in absolute, paralyzed shock. The conspiracy was laid bare in the bright afternoon light. The groom's family and the bride's family had colluded to murder a three-year-old boy.
"Turn that thing off!" Vanessa shrieked, her face draining of all color.
Marcus panicked. The fair, rosy skin of his face flushed a violent, desperate red. He lunged forward from beneath the cocktail table, his hands grasping frantically for the tablet to smash it against the stone tiles and destroy the evidence.
"Give me that!" Marcus roared, his luxury watch catching the light as he swiped at the device.
Before his fingers could close around the plastic casing, a wet, dark-green heel slammed down directly onto his wrist.
Marcus howled in pain, his bones grinding against the hard stone. He looked up.
Valentina Moretti was standing over him. Water dripped steadily from her ruined, elegant gown, pooling around her designer heels. Her heavy diamond earrings swung gently against her neck. But her eyes—cold, sharp, and utterly intimidating—were the eyes of the Mafia boss who had just ordered his execution without speaking a single word.
"You planned to murder my son," Valentina stated. The volume of her voice was dangerously low, a measured, cold delivery that commanded the attention of every armed man on the terrace.
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"It's a fake recording!" Marcus stammered, pulling his bruised wrist back and scrambling to his feet. "It's AI! She generated it to frame us!"
"You really think anyone here is stupid enough to believe that?" Valentina asked, stepping forward. "You just signed your own death warrant, Marcus."
