Chapter 2 - THE SHADOW OF THE MORETTI DYNASTY
At thirty-nine, Dominic Moretti was a phantom who dominated the front pages of the Chicago Tribune and the federal indictment logs alike. He controlled the private shipping ports along Lake Michigan, half the commercial real estate in the Loop, and a financial network that spanned from Zurich to the Cayman Islands.
He wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders with lethal precision. His dark hair was combed straight back, touched with gray at the temples, and his face was carved from granite—unsmiling, unreadable, and terrifyingly observant.
He rarely attended charity galas. His appearance tonight was a political necessity; the Harrington Foundation was funding the children's wing at Mercy Hospital, a project Dominic’s late mother had endowed decades ago.
Bianca Sutton’s expression transformed instantly from haughty disdain to radiant, practiced adoration. She smoothed the front of her emerald-silk dress and glided across the marble floor toward him with her hand extended.
“Mr. Moretti,” Bianca breathed, her voice dripping with honey. “Welcome to the Windsor Estate. We are so honored you could grace us with your presence tonight. I am Bianca Sutton, chairwoman of the—”
Dominic Moretti did not take her hand.
He didn't even look at her.
His stride halted abruptly halfway across the ballroom. His dark, piercing eyes—eyes that had unnerved rival capos and federal prosecutors alike—locked onto the tall wrought-iron waste bin near the service entrance.
The entire ballroom held its breath. The string quartet stopped playing mid-measure. Even the caterers froze in the corridor.
Dominic walked past Bianca as if she were a ghost. He ignored her outstretched hand, walked straight to the open trash bin, reached inside, and lifted the battered brass compass out with long, steady fingers.
He turned toward the three hundred guests—most of whom were now trickling in through the doors—holding the scuffed leather and scratched brass in the palm of his hand as though it were the Holy Grail.
“Who told you this was worthless?” Dominic’s voice was a low, resonant baritone that carried effortlessly across the marble room.
No one answered. The silence was absolute, thick enough to suffocate.
Bianca flushed a deep, mottled red, her smile twitching dangerously. She hurried over, her heels clicking frantically against the floor.
“Oh, Mr. Moretti, please pay no attention to that,” Bianca laughed nervously, fluttering her eyelashes. “It’s just some absolute trash left behind by the cleaning crew. Some rusted old trinket. Kevin, get that out of his sight, it’s embarrassing—”
“Shut up,” Dominic said.
The two words were spoken quietly, but they carried the weight of an executioner's axe. Bianca snapped her mouth shut, stumbling backward a half-step, her face turning chalk white.
Dominic ignored her completely. He brought the compass closer to his face, his thumb gently tracing the worn, cracked leather casing. His fingers brushed the edge of the hinged lid, feeling the familiar weight and balance that only a master craftsman’s work possessed.
With a slow, deliberate click, he popped the lid open.
Inside, beneath the trembling glass needle, tiny, microscopic initials were hand-engraved into the brass plate: S.H. - Bellweather, 1974.
Dominic’s breath hitched. The imposing, untouchable mafia boss—the man who had ordered the dismantling of entire syndicates without blinking—stared down at the engraving as if he had just seen a ghost walk across the room.
He raised his head, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter of the ballroom until they found Wren standing motionless near the pillar.
“Samuel Holloway,” Dominic said aloud, his voice cracking slightly on the name.
Wren stopped breathing. The floor beneath her feet seemed to dissolve.
Dominic’s gaze locked onto her.
“Where is he?” Dominic demanded, his voice ringing with an urgency that terrified everyone in the room.
May you like
Wren’s hands tightened around the thick, color-coded binder tucked under her arm. Her knuckles turned white.
“He was my grandfather,” Wren answered, her voice trembling but clear across the silent hall. “He died four years ago.”
