Chapter 8 - The Dead Brother
Marco had been buried beside their mother.
Salvatore had carried the coffin.
He had placed soil over the grave himself.
Yet the photograph was dated eight months ago.
Carmine enlarged it.
Marco stood outside a villa in Switzerland beside Barrett.
Alive.
Older.
Scarred.
But unmistakably Marco.
Leo looked at Salvatore.
“You thought he was dead?”
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Explosion.”
“No body?”
Salvatore looked at him.
“Not enough to identify.”
Leo understood before Salvatore said it.
“Someone lied.”
The memory card contained dozens of documents but only fragments.
Elena had apparently gathered evidence over years.
One audio file was corrupted.
Another contained Marco’s voice.
When my brother falls, the boy must not exist.
Salvatore replayed it.
Again.
Again.
The room became colder each time.
Leo stopped him.
“I heard it.”
Salvatore shut the laptop.
His son was pale.
“You don’t need to hear more.”
“He wants me dead.”
“He won’t get near you.”
“How do you know?”
Salvatore looked toward the armed men outside.
“Because now I know he’s alive.”
Carmine immediately doubled security.
But Marco moved first.
That evening, every Moretti-controlled dock in Brooklyn was raided by federal agents.
Two warehouses burned.
Three accountants disappeared.
A senator publicly accused Salvatore of money laundering.
The organization began bleeding from ten wounds at once.
“They prepared this,” Carmine said.
“Years,” Salvatore replied.
Barrett laughed when confronted.
“You still think this is about money?”
Salvatore entered the cell alone.
“What is it about?”
“Revenge.”
“For what?”
Barrett smiled.
“Ask Marco.”
“You helped fake his death.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he understood what you never did.”
“What?”
“That this family should rule, not negotiate.”
Salvatore stared.
“You killed Elena.”
“We tried.”
His hand slammed around Barrett’s throat.
Barrett choked.
Salvatore forced himself to release him.
“You knew Leo was mine.”
“For years.”
“And you left him in that orphanage.”
Barrett’s smile returned.
“We expected Vance to find what Elena hid.”
“You tortured a child.”
“I didn’t touch him.”
“You ordered it.”
Silence.
That was confession enough.
Salvatore left before he killed him.
Outside, Leo sat on a bench.
“You heard?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“I’m tired of people deciding what I should know.”
Salvatore sat beside him.
Leo looked small beneath the mansion’s enormous paintings.
“Are you going to kill him?”
Salvatore did not lie.
“I want to.”
“But?”
“But I have a son watching what kind of man I choose to become.”
Leo stared at him.
That sentence mattered.
More than Salvatore expected.
The next morning, a package arrived.
No return address.
Inside was a phone.
It rang.
Salvatore answered.
Marco’s voice came through.
“Hello, brother.”
Salvatore closed his eyes.
Seven years of grief turned into rage.
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“You touched Elena.”
“I tried to save you from her.”
“You tried to kill her.”
“She was going to destroy everything Father built.”
Salvatore’s voice dropped.
“And my son?”
A pause.
Then Marco laughed.
“Your son was never supposed to survive.”
Leo was standing in the doorway.
He heard every word.
Salvatore saw him.
Marco continued.
“Give me the files Elena left, and maybe the boy reaches twelve.”
Salvatore replied.
“You have twenty-four hours to disappear.”
“Or?”
“I find you.”
Marco laughed again.
“You couldn’t protect Elena.”
The line went dead.
Leo’s face had gone white.
Salvatore walked toward him.
“He’s wrong.”
“About what?”
“I couldn’t protect your mother because I didn’t know the war existed.”
Salvatore placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder.
“But I know now.”
Leo looked at him.
“What are you going to do?”
May you like
Salvatore looked toward the New York skyline beyond the windows.
“I’m going to end it.”
