Chapter 8 - The Price of Treason
At 5:30 a.m., the first grey light of dawn broke over the rain-soaked gardens of the Moretti estate.
Dominic walked down the narrow stone steps leading to the old wine cellar in the basement of the mansion. He moved slowly, his black cane clicking against the damp stone, but he moved under his own power, without assistance.
Behind him walked Frank Bellini and Claire.
The basement air was cool, smelling of aged oak barrels, damp soil, and old wine. At the far end of the corridor, behind a heavy iron-forged gate, sat two men on cold stone benches.
Vincent Moretti and Martin Keller.
Vincent’s suit was torn and stained with dried blood from the blow Claire had delivered to his head. His silver hair was matted, his eyes bloodshot and hollowed with dark circles. Martin Keller sat curled in the corner, holding his knees against his chest, shivering in the damp chill.
As Dominic’s cane struck the floor outside the iron gate, both men snapped their heads up.
Vincent scrambled to his feet, rushing to the iron bars, gripping them with his trembling, dirt-smeared hands. “Dom! Dom, please! It’s six in the morning! Let us out! We’ve been down here all night without water!”
Dominic stood outside the gate, leaning lightly on his cane, looking at his younger brother with eyes that held no warmth, no anger, and no mercy.
“Salvatore Genovese just transferred twelve million dollars to my estate account, Vincent,” Dominic said softly.
Vincent blinked, his mind struggling to process the information. “Sal... Sal paid you?”
“He paid for his mistake,” Dominic said. “And he left you and Keller behind to pay for yours.”
Martin Keller let out a whimpering sob from the corner, hiding his face in his hands.
Vincent’s grip on the iron bars tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Dom... we’re brothers! You can't kill me! Pop’s memory—”
“Pop died fifteen years ago, Vincent,” Dominic interrupted. “And Pop would have put a bullet in your head himself if he saw what you turned into. A greedy, weak coward who sold his own blood to the North Side because he didn't have the stomach to earn his own seat.”
Dominic stepped back from the gate.
“Frank.”
“Yeah, Dom?”
“Martin Keller goes to the federal prosecutor’s office at eight o'clock,” Dominic ordered. “He signs a full confession regarding the Cicero tax fraud and the illegal wiretaps. He spends the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary.”
Keller collapsed onto his side on the cold stone, weeping openly in relief that his life was being spared, even if it meant spending two decades in a steel cell.
Vincent looked at Dominic with sudden, desperate terror. “What about me, Dom?! What about me?!”
Dominic looked at his younger brother for a long, quiet moment.
“You wanted my chair, Vincent,” Dominic whispered. “You wanted my life. You wanted my power. But you didn't want the weight that comes with it.”
Dominic turned his back on the iron gate.
“Frank will take you to the airstrip in Gary,” Dominic said as he began walking back up the stone stairs. “There’s a cargo plane leaving for a copper mining facility in northern Peru at seven thirty. You’ll be working the supply dock under an assumed name. If you ever set foot in North America again... Frank won't bring you to a cellar. He’ll put you six feet under the swamp.”
May you like
“Dom! No! Dom!” Vincent screamed, beating his fists against the heavy iron bars, his cries echoing up the stone stairwell. “You can't do this to me! I’m a Moretti! I’m a Moretti!”
Dominic didn't look back. He kept walking, his cane clicking steadily against the stone steps until the sound of his brother’s screams faded into the cold silence of the house.
