3. Leander
Leander
The fluorescent lights of the hospital parking garage flicker against the concrete pillars, humming a dull rhythm that matches the headache forming behind my eyes.
It’s six in the evening and my shift officially ended twenty minutes ago, after seven hours in the operating room and three patient consultations that could have easily been handled over email.
I’m so ready to call it a day.
I pull my car keys out of my pocket, heading toward my sedan parked in the staff bay.
Before I reach the driver's side door, two men step out from behind the concrete pillar adjacent to my car. Both wear dark, tailored coats, their posture stiff, hands casually resting near their belts.
I stop five feet back, resting my briefcase against my leg.
"Dr. Moretti," the taller one greets. His name is Gianni. He’s spent twelve years in my father’s security detail, and he has a jagged scar across his chin from a shattered wine bottle in Naples. "Your father is expecting you for dinner."
This man never gives up, huh.
I look at Gianni, then at the second guard standing near the rear bumper. I have a long list of reasons to refuse, but I know how Roberto operates. If I walk past them now, two more men will be waiting at my condo, or sitting in the lobby of Metro General tomorrow morning.
He won't stop until he gets his audience.
“It's Dr. Satori, not Moretti.” I let out a low breath through my nose, give a single nod, and turn toward the black SUV idling in the executive bay fifty feet away. I don't argue or try to talk my way out of it. It's a waste of breath.
"Car is ready, Doctor.” Gianni mutters, stepping ahead to open the rear passenger door for me.
"Thank you, Gianni.” I mumble flatly, sliding onto the leather bench seat.
Gianni shuts the door firmly behind me. The glass cuts off the ambient hum of the garage, replacing it with the quiet purr of the SUV's engine.
I lean my head back against the headrest as the driver pulls out into the evening city traffic. Rain streams down the tinted windows, blurring the neon signs of the downtown district into long streaks of red and yellow.
It takes forty minutes to leave the city center and climb the winding roads leading into the hills of the north estate.
The iron gates at the perimeter stand twenty feet high, topped with discreet security housing and reinforced steel bars.
The guards inside the stone booth glance through the front windshield, recognize the driver, and press the remote release without asking for identification.
The estate hasn't changed in fifteen years. A massive limestone villa sitting on twenty acres of manicured lawn, surrounded by mature oak trees and illuminated by warm exterior floodlights. It looks like a diplomatic embassy from the road, but it functions like a fortress on the inside.
A fortress I'd prefer not to ever see again in my life, unfortunately that’s not possible.
The driver cuts the engine in the cobblestone courtyard.
I open my own door, pick up my briefcase, and step out into the damp night air.
Two house servants in crisp white shirts stand near the double front doors.
When I approach, the older one, a butler named Mateo who has worked on the grounds since before I came to live in this house, bows his head slightly.
"Good evening, Master Leander," Mateo greets softly. His tone is warm, genuine, and completely free of the stiff, nervous tension that usually fills this hallway.
"Evening, Mateo," I reply, setting my coat on the hall tree near the door. "Is he in the dining room?"
"He is waiting in the study with your brother and Capo Cosimo," Mateo answers, lowering his voice half a tone. "Your brother arrived twenty minutes ago. He was... vocal about the kitchen staff's preparation."
Of course the irritating brat was.
"Did he touch anybody?"
"Thankfully, no sir."
"Okay." I mutter, patting the old man’s shoulder once before walking toward the arched corridor leading to the west wing.
Before I reach the study doors, the handle turns, and Vincenzo steps out into the hallway.
Speak of the devil.
He’s thirty-two, two years older than me, dressed in a custom three-piece suit that costs more than a surgical nurse's monthly salary. He has our father’s dark hair and sharp jaw line, but his eyes lack Roberto's patient calculation.
They are always moving, always searching for a threat or an insult to react to.
Behind him stand two younger security guys who look like they spend six hours a day lifting weights and two hours learning how to look dangerous.
Just like their boss, brawns over brains.
When Vincenzo sees me, he stops in the center of the hallway, crossing his arms over his chest. His two guards step back, bowing their heads respectfully toward him.
"Look who finally decided to show up," Vincenzo croons, his voice carrying a familiar, mocking edge. "The surgeon. Did you have to rescue a cat on your way over, or did you just want to keep Father waiting?"
I don’t bother to reply as I continue my walk toward the door without changing my pace.
He doesn't shift out of the center of the hall. "You should work on your punctuality, Leander. When Father calls a family meeting, men show up on time. Children play with scalpels."
I stop eighteen inches from his chest; I stand three inches taller than him.
I don’t have the energy for this right now.
"Move, Vincenzo," I say quietly.
His arrogant smile twitches, just for a fraction of a second, before he steps aside with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. "After you, Doctor. Don't want to keep the Don waiting."
I walk past him into the grand study.
The room is lined with floor-to-ceiling cherry wood bookshelves, a massive marble fireplace burning quietly along the far wall, and a conference table set for dinner.
Sitting at the head of the table, cutting a piece of seared lamb with precise movements, is Roberto Moretti.
At sixty-five, his hair is entirely silver, but his posture is as straight as an iron rail.
Sitting to his right is Cosimo, a senior capo in his late fifties with thick grey eyebrows and a gold signet ring on his pinky finger.
Cosimo manages the harbor docks and half the commercial warehousing in the state.
"Leander," Roberto mutters, setting his knife down against the porcelain plate. He doesn't stand, but his dark eyes fix on mine with absolute focus. "You're late."
Left to me, I wouldn’t even be here.
"Your driver drove carefully," I reply, taking a seat at the far end of the table, three chairs down from Vincenzo, who slides into his place with a loud scrape of his leather chair.
"Sit, sit," Cosimo mumbles with a rough, gravelly laugh, waving his hand toward the wine decanter. "The boy works eighty hours a week saving lives, Roberto. Give him a minute to breathe."
"He works eighty hours a week avoiding his family," Roberto corrects, taking a slow sip of red wine. "There is a distinct difference."
A servant steps forward and fills my glass with wine, then sets a plate of roasted vegetables and steak in front of me. I don't touch the wine, but I pick up my fork.
"We were just discussing the dispute at the South River rail yard," Cosimo rumbled, resting his forearms on the table.
He looks back and forth between Vincenzo and me.
"One of the local union organizers, a man named Miller, is refusing to sign off on the new customs clearance forms. He’s asking for fifteen percent more on the side, or he threatens to trigger a federal safety audit on three of our shipping containers. "
Roberto looks down the table at Vincenzo. "You spent two days looking into this, Vincenzo. What is your recommendation?"
Vincenzo leans back in his chair, taking a huge swallow of wine before speaking. His tone is loud, full of unearned confidence.
"It's simple," Vincenzo starts, bringing his palm down against the dark wood of the table.
"We send two guys down to his house tonight.
We break his knees in front of his wife, set fire to his personal boat in the marina, and tell him if he speaks the word 'audit' again, his kids won't make it to high school. He’ll sign the papers before breakfast."
Cosimo nods slowly, though his expression remains completely neutral.
He's watching Roberto's reaction, not agreeing with Vincenzo.
Roberto doesn't react at all. He just turns his head slowly toward me.
"And you, Leander?" Roberto asks. "How would you handle Mr. Miller?"
"I wouldn't touch his family or his boat," I reply, cutting a small piece of steak and chewing slowly before continuing.
"Miller isn't acting on his own. A low-level union organizer doesn't demand fifteen percent unless he knows he has backing from someone higher up.
If you beat him up, his union reps bring in the federal inspectors out of spite, and your three containers sit on the dock for six months while the FBI reviews every manifest."
Vincenzo scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Oh, please. You think a union guy gives a damn about manifests?"
"I think he cares about his bank account," I reply, looking directly at Vincenzo.
"Miller’s brother-in-law runs a commercial freight company out of Newark that relies entirely on our harbor permits to operate.
Instead of sending two thugs with bats, you revoke his brother-in-law's transit access tomorrow morning.
It costs us nothing. Miller loses his family's income stream by noon, his union backing vanishes because he brought heat on his own relatives, and he signs the clearance papers himself just to keep his brother-in-law from going bankrupt. "
Silence settles over the table for three long seconds. The only sound is the quiet crackle of the wood in the fireplace.
Cosimo lets out a low whistle, looking at Roberto with a raised eyebrow. "Clean. No blood on the dock, no federal red flags, and the union stays quiet. How did you have this much information?"