Page 73 of Vows Made in Silence
It’s about legacy.
Back in Vegas, the compound is ready.
Neto and Leo stand with me as I lay the ledger down on the war room table. Giuliana sits just outside, Daniel asleep on her shoulder. She offered to leave, to take our son and disappear if this went south. Said she'd vanish off the map if it meant keeping Daniel safe.
But I looked her in the eyes and told her the truth—we don’t run anymore. Not from blood. Not from war. Not from our legacy. That part of our story is over.
If this is the end, she deserves to see it. To witness what we fought for.
We make the call.
A meeting is called. Attendance isn't a request—it's a command. One carved into bloodlines and backed by the weight of the Moretti name.
The heads of the New York families—Anthony Gallo, Geno Roselli, Adriano Vescari. The Bratva liaison, stone-eyed and smug. And the two council members who dared to sit at my father’s table while lining their pockets with betrayal.
They don’t send messengers, and they don’t stall. They come quick, quiet, and cautious—because when a Moretti calls, delay is just another word for disrespect.
They come.
Because when a Moretti summons you to the table after a purge like this, you either show—or you're already dead.
It’s not respect that brings them.
It’s fear.
I let them sweat in the great hall. No food. No drink. Just stone and silence. The room reeks of power, and now it belongs to me.
When I step in, the conversation dies.
Giuliana stands beside me, calm and radiant in a tailored black dress. Every man in this room once underestimated her. Now they can’t look away.
“I think you know why we’re here,” I say, dropping the ledger onto the table. It thuds like a gavel.
One of the New York dons narrows his eyes. “You expect us to take your word for what’s in that?”
“No.” I crack it open and slide a page across the table. “I expect you to recognize your own signature.”
He pales.
“You made deals behind my brother’s back. Funded the Bratva’s expansion into Moretti territory. You put a bullet in his chest to shut him up. And then you thought I’d be too green to matter.”
The Bratva envoy shrugs. “That was business. What is this? An execution?”
“No,” I say, stepping closer. “This is the debt coming due. You killed my brother and today I am here to collect.”
I nod to Turk. He places a folder in front of each man. Inside—copies of the ledgers, wire transfers, photos. Proof that will burn them if it ever sees daylight.
“You’re going to sign over your interests in Nevada. Your ports. Your accounts. Your fronts. Then we're going our separate ways. Quietly.”
“And if we don’t?” the Bratva man smirks.
I don't smile this time.
I laugh—but it's low and cold, the kind of sound that used to make men flinch when my father made it. Then I slam both hands down on the table, the crack echoing through the hall like a gunshot.
“You think this is a fucking negotiation?” I growl. “You think you still have the power to smirk at me? After what you did to my family?
I lean forward, voice venom laced.
