Chapter 6 - THE TRAP AT THE GRAND HOTEL
The grand ballroom of the Manhattan Regency Hotel was draped in black velvet and crystal chandeliers.
Over two hundred high-ranking members of the city's five families sat at round tables, sipping vintage champagne and speaking in hushed, expectant whispers.
At the head table sat Vincent Moretti—a large, silver-haired man in a tailored tuxedo, a triumphant smirk permanently fixed on his face. Beside him stood Juliet Duca, looking immaculate in a sapphire evening gown, her wrist loosely handcuffed to a subtle leather strap held by a guard behind her chair.
She had been given a choice by Dominic: cooperate with the play, or be handed over to the Capos immediately. She chose to play her part.
Moretti stood up, tapping a silver spoon against his champagne flute. The room went instantly silent.
“Friends,” Moretti announced, his deep voice carrying across the ballroom. “Tragedy struck the Duca family last night. Lorenzo Duca was ambushed by unknown assailants outside his estate. He did not survive the night.”
Gasps and murmurs echoed through the room.
“In accordance with his father's final will,” Moretti continued, gesturing toward Juliet, “Juliet Duca steps forward as the sole executor. And today, we officially merge the Duca and Moretti enterprises under one united banner.”
He raised his glass. “To a new era.”
“I wouldn't drink that toast just yet, Vincent.”
The heavy mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open.
The room erupted into absolute shock.
Lorenzo Duca walked into the ballroom.
He wore a custom black suit that completely hid the medical bandages beneath his shirt. His posture was commanding, his dark eyes flashing with absolute, terrifying authority. Walking beside him was Dominic, flanked by twenty heavily armed security officers.
And walking directly beside Lorenzo, wearing an elegant dark suit and carrying a laptop, was me.
Moretti dropped his glass. It shattered against the marble floor, spraying champagne across his polished shoes.
“Lorenzo…” Moretti stammered, stepping back. “You’re… you’re supposed to be dead!”
“I get that a lot,” Lorenzo said smoothly, walking down the center aisle while the gathered mob bosses parted like the Red Sea. “Surprise, Vincent. I survived your hitmen. Just like I survived your poison.”
Juliet shrank into her chair, her face ghastly pale.
Moretti’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You have no standing here, Lorenzo! The board voted! Juliet signed the transfer papers—”
“Juliet signed those papers under duress after confessing to a dozen federal crimes,” I spoke up, stepping forward and opening my laptop.
I hit a single key.
The massive projection screens behind the main stage—normally used for corporate presentations—instantly flickered to life.
A crystal-clear audio recording began playing through the ballroom’s high-end sound system.
“I was wondering when you’d find your father’s little hiding spot, Lorenzo...” Juliet’s recorded voice echoed through the room.
The entire ballroom listened in stunned silence as the recording played. The five million dollars to Marco. The Moretti partnership. The assassination order. And then... the confession about David Vance.
“Vincent Moretti provided the hitmen for the accountant three years ago...”
When the recording ended, the ballroom was as quiet as a grave.
Every Capo in the room turned to look at Vincent Moretti with unadulterated disgust. In the underworld, ambition was expected. But conspiring with a stepmother to murder your own boss and selling out the syndicate to a rival family was an unforgivable sin.
Old Capo Giancana stood up from his table, his face dark with fury. “You broke the code, Moretti.”
Moretti reached for the gun inside his jacket, but before his hand could touch the holster, Dominic’s team stepped forward.
Federal agents—alerted by the evidence I had forwarded to the District Attorney three hours prior—shattered the side glass doors, pouring into the ballroom with tactical rifles raised.
“FBI! Nobody move!”
Within five frantic minutes, Vincent Moretti, Juliet Duca, and seven of their high-ranking lieutenants were in handcuffs, dragged out past the very people they had tried to rule.
As the agents led Moretti past me, he looked at me with pure hatred. “Who the hell are you?”
I looked him dead in the eye, my voice firm and unwavering.
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“I’m Clara Vance,” I said softly. “The wife of the man you murdered. And the woman who just ended your life.”
***
