Chapter 4 - Shadows of the Moretti War
While peace settled over the third-floor nursery, the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn were boiling with residual tension.
Two miles from the docks in Red Hook, Salvatore Moretti—the surviving patriarch of the fractured Moretti crime family—slammed his fist onto a scarred mahogany table in the back room of a failing social club.
“I lost three warehouses, two cash drops, and my own nephew in that war!” Moretti roared, his face purple with rage as he glared at his remaining lieutenants. “And Rossi sits up in that glass castle on Long Island like nothing happened! His wife is dead, his kid is dying—or so the hospital leaks say—and we’re supposed to lick our wounds?”
“Boss, the Rossi security grid is impenetrable right now,” one of his capos warned nervously. “He brought in mercenaries from Boston. The federal prosecutors are backing off because half the district attorney’s office is on his payroll. If we hit him now, we’re walking into a wood chipper.”
Moretti’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom.
“I don't need to storm the gates,” Moretti hissed, a slow, ugly smile spreading across his scarred face. “A castle doesn't fall because you break the walls. It falls when the people inside open the gates from within. Find out who is still working inside that estate. Find out about the new staff. Money talks louder than Rossi’s bullets.”
Unknown to Moretti, however, Mateo Calder had already plugged the leak.
Down in the security basement of the Long Island mansion, Mateo sat before a wall of glowing monitors, reviewing every digital log, phone call, and visitor pass from the past forty-eight hours.
“Anything?” asked a voice from the doorway.
Mateo didn't look up as Lorenzo walked into the control room, smelling of rain and expensive espresso.
“The agency that sent Hunter to us?” Mateo muttered, spinning his chair around. “I dug deeper into their corporate shell. They’re tied to a real estate front owned by a Moretti front-man in Manhattan.”
Lorenzo’s expression darkened instantly. The temperature in the room plummeted.
“You think she’s a plant?” Lorenzo asked, his voice dangerously low.
“I don't know,” Mateo admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “She cried real tears over the baby. She saved his life with her own body. But in our line of work, the best spies are the ones who don't even know they’re being used, or the ones desperate enough to sell out for a marble headstone.”
Lorenzo stared at the monitor showing a live feed of the nursery. On screen, Hunter was walking gently back and forth across the rug, humming a soft, wordless lullaby while little Leo slept against her shoulder, his tiny hand curled into the fabric of her shirt.
“A spy wouldn't risk her life standing in front of a loaded gun to feed a dying baby, Mateo,” Lorenzo said coldly.
“Desperate people do desperate things, Boss.”
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“Then we keep her close,” Lorenzo decided, turning toward the door. “We watch every move she makes. If she’s innocent, she stays. If she’s a Moretti operative...”
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
