Chapter 4 - THE ANNIVERSARY GATHERINGBy 8:00 AM the following morning, the skies over Long Island were heavy with dark, weeping rain clouds.
The sprawling courtyard of the Moretti estate was filled with bulletproof black sedans. Dozens of high-ranking syndicate leaders, regional captains, and corrupt politicians dressed in tailored black suits arrived to pay their respects on the three-year anniversary of Isabella and Daniel’s passing.
A grand white tent had been set up in the main garden, overlooking the marble memorial fountain built in honor of Lucas’s fallen family.
Mateo Rossi stood near the entrance of the tent, greeting the arriving captains with solemn handshakes and mournful nods, acting the part of the grieving, loyal right-hand man to perfection.
Under his tailored suit jacket, however, Mateo was wearing a light Kevlar vest. His phone was tucked inside his pocket, vibrating every five minutes as Marco Falcone’s hit squad confirmed their tactical positions surrounding the perimeter of the estate.
"Where is Lucas?" asked Captain Gianni, an old, white-haired veteran of the family who had served Lucas’s father. "The service is supposed to begin in ten minutes."
"He’s upstairs, Gianni," Mateo said softly, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. "You know how hard this day is for him. He’s taking it very rough this morning."
"He’s a good man," Gianni grunted, shaking his head. "He’s cleaned up the business, kept us all out of federal prison, and made us richer than ever. God protect him."
Mateo smiled thinly. "Yes... God protect him."
At 8:55 AM, the heavy double doors of the mansion opened.
Lucas Moretti stepped out onto the marble terrace.
He looked magnificent and formidable. He wore a bespoke charcoal-black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silk tie. His posture was completely straight, his breath steady and deep, his gray-blue eyes burning with an intense, terrifying radiance that made every captain in the garden immediately fall silent.
Beside him walked Paulie and four senior security guards carrying tactical submachine guns under their heavy coats.
Mateo’s eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Lucas didn't look like a man who had been poisoned twelve hours ago. He didn't look weak, confused, or dying. He looked like the god of vengeance incarnate.
"Lucas!" Mateo stammered, rushing up the terrace steps, trying desperately to conceal his panic. "You... you look remarkably well! I thought you were resting!"
"I slept like a baby, Mateo," Lucas said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet garden, echoing off the stone walls. "In fact, I haven't felt this clear-headed in three years."
Mateo swallowed hard, his hand instinctively twitching toward his pocket to check his phone. It was 8:58 AM. Marco Falcone’s snipers and assault team were scheduled to breach the North gate in precisely two minutes.
"That's... that's wonderful news, brother," Mateo lied, his face turning pale. "Let us begin the memorial service before the rain gets heavier."
"Yes," Lucas said, walking down the steps toward the center of the white tent, standing right beside the marble memorial fountain. "Let us begin."
The thirty captains and syndicate leaders gathered in a semi-circle around Lucas, lowering their heads in respectful silence.
Lucas looked around at the faces of the men he had led for six years.
"Three years ago today," Lucas spoke, his voice deep and resonant, "I lost my heart. I lost my wife, Isabella, and my son, Daniel. For three years, I believed that loss was caused by our enemies across the river. I believed it was the price of our past sins."
The men nodded solemnly.
"But last night," Lucas continued, stepping closer to Mateo, "a miracle happened in this house. A four-year-old girl—the daughter of my housekeeper—saved my life when someone tried to poison me with a military respiratory toxin in my own library."
A shockwave of loud gasps and angry mutters rippled through the crowd of captains. Gianni stepped forward, his face flushed with rage. "Poison?! In this house?! Who dared, Lucas?!"
Mateo’s heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Lucas, what are you talking about?! Who would poison you?!"
"You tell me, Mateo," Lucas said softly.
Lucas pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed play on a master audio file connected to the estate’s outdoor speaker system.
Suddenly, Mateo’s own voice boomed out from four hidden surround-sound speakers across the garden, crystal clear and unmistakable:
"The hit was supposed to look natural before the captains arrived tomorrow... She had a medical inhaler and forced air into his lungs... Tomorrow morning, during the memorial service in the garden, your men will breach the North gate as planned. You kill Lucas, you kill the captains who remain loyal to him, and I take formal control..."
The silence that followed the recording was deafening.
Every single captain in the garden turned their heads simultaneously to stare at Mateo Rossi.
Mateo felt the atmosphere in the garden turn instantly to absolute zero. "No... no, that’s a fake! That’s an AI generation! Lucas, you have to believe me! I loved Isabella! I loved Daniel!"
"Did you?" Lucas asked coldly.
Lucas pulled out Isabella’s leather journal, holding it up for everyone to see. "This is Isabella’s private diary, written two weeks before she died. She found the bank transfers, Mateo. She found the ten million dollars you paid to Marco Falcone to plant the bomb under my family's car."
"You traitorous swine!" Captain Gianni roared, pulling his handgun from his holster and aiming it straight at Mateo’s head.
Before Gianni could pull the trigger, Mateo panicked. He pulled a concealed pistol from his coat, seized a nearby junior captain as a human shield, and fired two wild shots into the air!
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"Nobody move!" Mateo screamed hysterically, his eyes wide and bloodshot, backing away toward the North gate. "Nobody move or I put a bullet in his brain! It was supposed to be mine! All of it! The money, the logistics, the empire! Lucas didn't deserve it! He wanted to abandon us for a piano teacher!"
At that exact second—at 9:00 AM sharp—a heavy armored truck rammed through the iron North gate of the estate, smashing the stone pillars to pieces!
