Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Dante
The conference room was dimly lit.
Both sides of the long table were packed with people.
Smoke curled through the air—a mix of different cigars fermenting into something thick and suffocating in the sealed space.
Someone set their whiskey glass down with a sharp clink.
Someone else leaned back in their chair, expressionless.
Another played with a lighter—click, click, click—like some kind of impatient countdown.
I sat at the head of the table. Said nothing.
"Don," Rizzo spoke first—a middle-aged Italian who ran the east side of Brooklyn. His knuckles were thick, a heavy gold ring on his pinky. "The Gulf Corridor situation. You need to give us answers today."
My voice dropped low, my gaze cutting toward him like a blade. "Open your damn eyes and look clearly. What gives you the right to talk to me like that?"
"Where the fuck were your men? Your men couldn't hold that line, and now all our shipments are stuck halfway.
Three men died at the docks. Three! All mine!
" He was shouting now, voice rising. "The FBI's watching that dock now.
We can't move ships for at least two months. You know how much money I'm losing?"
"We know you're handling it." Vincent cut in from across the table.
He was someone I'd elevated myself, seemed calmer, but his tone had no patience either.
"But Dante, it's been almost a week since this went down, and you still don't know who did it.
We're not saying we don't trust you, but you can't make us sit here and wait. "
The noise was giving me a headache. These people only knew how to complain about their own problems, sitting at my table, speaking to me with fake concern. But I knew exactly what they were thinking—their money, their shipments, their losses.
I stubbed out my cigar in the ashtray. The burnt tobacco smell hit my nostrils.
"Javier Mendez."
When I said the name, the room went silent.
"The dock bombing was his people." My voice wasn't loud, but in the quiet room every word landed clearly. "He wasn't after your shipments. What he wants is control of the Gulf Corridor."
Vincent thought for a moment. "Javier? That Mexican? Isn't he a rabid dog for the Cruz family? Why would he come to New York and target our passage?"
"This is an old problem. You don't need to know why." I was getting impatient. "You just need to know that the dock being shut down works in our favor. He'll make another move. And I'll be watching him until I catch him."
"You'll watch him?" Rizzo slammed his glass down hard. "You don't even know where his people are right now. Are we just supposed to sit here like targets? When Salvador was in charge, this never would've happened. I've been saying it—being a Don isn't just about being named Moretti, you have to—"
He didn't finish.
I stood up fast. The chair scraped backward across the floor with a harsh screech. I leaned forward, palms flat on the table, my other hand already pressing the gun to his forehead.
Rizzo's mouth snapped shut.
"You talk too much." I rolled my neck. My patience was gone.
I tapped the gun against his head a few times, looking him in the eye, speaking slowly, word by word.
"You're still sitting at this table because I let you have that chair.
If you think I'm not as good as Salvador, I don't mind kicking you out of New York.
Let's see how long your so-called business lasts without the Moretti family's protection. Without my support."
I leaned in closer, voice dropping even lower, colder. "Want to try?"
Rizzo's face changed. His lips moved, but nothing came out.
I put the gun away and straightened up, scanning everyone at the table.
"The Gulf Corridor situation—I'll give you answers," I said. "I'll catch Javier myself and get your operations running again. Any losses during this time, I'll cover them all."
No one spoke.
The meeting ended like that. The group filed out like defeated lions, heads down.
As Vincent left, I caught his eye, hoping he'd help smooth things over with the others.
Vincent understood. He nodded. That gave me some relief.
I stood by the table for a while. The overhead light hummed with electrical current—faint, constant, like some invisible pressure building.
Marco burst through the door, moving faster than usual, his face hard. I rarely saw that expression on him.
He was gripping a stack of photos, gripping them so tight the edges were creasing. "Dante... look at this."
I looked down. The photos were low quality, taken with a telephoto lens from a distance. The figure in the frame wore a dark coat, lean build, the profile belonging to Javier—the man I'd been hunting.
But my eyes didn't stay on him. They landed on the woman across from him—Valentina.
She was turned slightly, talking to Javier, hair half-covering her face. But that cream-colored coat, her posture, the way she tilted her head when she spoke—I knew it all too well.
Something in my chest stopped. By the time I realized it, my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out.
I went through all the photos, barely able to believe what I was seeing. The way Valentina and Javier interacted—like two partners who'd worked together for years. Like they'd known each other a long, long time.
"So." My voice was hoarse from the cigars, every word tasting bitter. "She already knew Javier when she was in Mexico. Is that it?"
"I had the same thought. Already looking into it.
" Marco paused, like something occurred to him.
"Valentina's been coming to the office a lot lately.
She's always chatting up people in logistics, bringing coffee, pastries, getting friendly.
I thought she just wanted to understand your work, so I didn't think much of it.
But I just asked the guys over there—turns out she's been asking key questions.
Routes, timing, which docks we're using... "
He didn't finish. The business we'd just discussed in the meeting—it all went through my company. Valentina had gotten that information and passed it to Javier. That's how he knew exactly where to plant his bombs and cause his destruction.
I understood the truth now. And it hit me like a slap across the face.
From the moment Valentina showed up at the Lombardi's party, I'd felt crushing guilt about her. She stayed close to me, caused Elena to misunderstand me, but I still couldn't make her leave because of that guilt.
Everything she said—wanting to be with me, wanting Elena and me to be happy—I thought at least some of it was real.
Turns out, all lies.
She wasn't the old Valentina anymore. The old Valentina was a professional lawyer who never lied. But now? She lied as easily as breathing.
"Dante, you okay?" Marco's hand landed on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes. My phone rang.
Alfredo's name flashed on the screen. My brow twitched hard. He rarely called me. Tonight's call sent a cold spike up my spine.
I answered.
"Dante." Alfredo's voice was old, hoarse, carrying deep exhaustion. "Salvador passed away."
The entire world seemed to stop in that instant.
Through the phone came the silence after a ventilator's been unplugged. Dead quiet. Those low, rhythmic sounds were gone, leaving only vast, empty stillness.
"He woke up once this afternoon. I thought he was getting better. But he passed quietly tonight. Went peacefully, no pain." Alfredo said. "He left you a letter. Come back and see."
The call ended.
I stood there holding my phone in the silent conference room. The overhead light still hummed. The ashtray on the table held the remnants of burned cigars.
I walked out of the conference room. My footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, one after another, like some tireless pendulum.
I went back to Moretti Manor.
The moment the gates opened, the butler and servants stood on both sides. Everyone kept their heads down, not daring to look at me. The entire manor was wrapped in a kind of silence I'd never felt before.
Alfredo led me to Salvador's bedroom. The lights were off, only a weak lamp glowing on the nightstand. Salvador lay in bed, all signs of life gone. His face had turned ashen gray. On the nightstand sat a letter.
I picked up the letter and sat in the nearby chair. Alfredo left quietly, not wanting to disturb me, closing the door behind him.
The handwriting was messy, pressed hard into the paper. It looked like a dying man had used his last bit of strength to write it.
"Dante,
This is the last time I'll call you that.
I didn't think I'd wake up again. Maybe it was just to tell you the truth. Elena never drugged you. That day, I drugged both of you. She was just an innocent victim too.
To make her marry you, I threatened her with her mother. I manufactured a debt crisis for her father so she'd have to come to me. We signed a contract—I'd help solve her crisis. In return, she'd hide our deal, marry you, and give you a child.
I knew neither of you would agree, so I used these methods. Neither of you did anything wrong. The only one at fault is me. But I knew my time was running out, so I had to make you marry while I was still alive.
Elena was my personal choice. She truly has many fine qualities. Her behavior since the marriage has only proven I chose correctly.
I need to tell you good news. Elena's pregnant. She told me herself—over a month along. I don't know what happened between you two, but I know you haven't been a proper husband. She's pregnant, yet she left the manor. So I'm guessing you don't know about this.
Go find her and bring her back. What your mother and I couldn't accomplish, I hope you can.
And now, I can finally be reunited with your mother."