Chapter 6 - The Moretti Threat
Three days later, the storm reached the gates of the estate.
Pamela stood on the second-floor balcony, wearing an elegant ivory wool dress that Roman’s tailors had delivered to her suite that morning. Her dark hair was styled into soft waves over her shoulders, her skin glowing after three days of good food, rest, and uninterrupted time with her children.
In the driveway below, four black sedans pulled up in a tight formation.
Donovan stood at the front steps, six armed men behind him, their hands tucked inside their dark overcoats.
From the lead sedan stepped Salvatore Moretti.
He was a man in his late sixties, short, heavy-set, with thin grey hair slicked back from a face that looked like weathered leather. He wore a heavy camel-hair coat and carried a gold-topped walking stick.
Roman stepped out onto the front porch to meet him.
Pamela gripped the balcony rail, watching the two titans of the Chicago underworld confront each other on the flagstone driveway.
“Roman!” Moretti’s raspy voice carried up to the balcony. “I came to offer my condolences on the sudden... disappearance... of Dr. Vance.”
Roman stood on the top step, looking down at Moretti like a king looking at a street beggar.
“Dr. Vance met with a sudden career change, Salvatore,” Roman said smoothly. “He decided to leave the medical profession.”
Moretti smiled, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “A shame. He was such a specialized doctor. I heard a rumor that you recently hired new staff for your nursery.”
“Not staff, Salvatore,” Roman said, his voice ringing across the driveway with icy clarity. “My wife.”
Moretti’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Wife? I didn't know you had remarried, Roman.”
“I don't advertise my personal happiness to men who owe me money,” Roman said flatly. “Pamela and I were married privately six months ago. She is the biological mother of my triplets. The medical records have been filed with the state supreme court.”
Moretti took a step forward, resting both hands on his walking stick. His dark eyes flicked up toward the second-floor balcony, locking onto Pamela.
Pamela didn't flinch. She held her head high, meeting the old mobster’s gaze with cold, steady hatred.
Moretti looked back at Roman. “She doesn't look like your usual taste, Roman. A waitress from Pilsen?”
Roman took one step down the stairs. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
“She is the mother of the Voss heirs, Salvatore,” Roman said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl. “And if you ever speak her name again, or send another car past these gates, I will dismantle every business you own from Gary to Milwaukee.”
Moretti stared at Roman for three long seconds. The casual arrogance on the old man’s face vanished, replaced by the ugly, bitter realization that his trap had failed completely.
“We’ll see how long your happy family lasts, Voss,” Moretti spat, turning on his heel and climbing back into his sedan.
The four cars backed out of the driveway, their tires screeching against the gravel as they disappeared through the iron gates.
Roman stayed standing on the steps until the gates swung shut. Then he looked up at the balcony.
May you like
Pamela met his eyes, her heart hammering in her chest.
Roman gave her a single, firm nod—a silent promise that as long as he was breathing, no one in Chicago would ever touch her children again.
