Chapter 4 - The Senator’s Bloody Ledger
The rain outside intensified, turning into a torrential downpour that whipped the waters of Lake Michigan into frothing white waves against the concrete sea wall.
Matteo walked around the mahogany desk, pulled out the heavy leather chair, and sat down. He pulled the third ledger—the smallest of the three—toward him, sliding his thumb across the worn calfskin binding.
“This ledger is different from the others,” Matteo noted, his sharp eyes examining the hand-stitched spine. “The handwriting on the cover isn't your father’s, Chiara.”
I stood up from my chair, the cashmere blanket falling to my waist, and walked around the desk to look over his shoulder.
The scent of cedar, clean rain, and expensive tobacco drifted from his clothes, grounding my racing pulse. I pointed to the small initials embossed in gold foil in the bottom right corner of the leather: *A.R. — 2019.*
“Antonio Rossi,” I whispered, my voice trembling with realization. “Your father.”
Matteo’s frame went rigid. His breath hitched in his chest as he carefully opened the first page.
Written in the bold, angular handwriting of the former Don of Chicago was a private codicil dated two months before Antonio Rossi had collapsed of his fatal stroke.
*“To my son, Matteo,”* the page began. *“If you are reading these words, it means my heart has finally failed me, and the jackals in our council are beginning to circle the hearth. Do not trust Thomas Vance. He speaks of modern banking and corporate logistics, but his hands are covered in the blood of our oldest allies.”*
Matteo’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle along his temple pulsed with dangerous rhythm.
*“In 2018, Vance approached me with a proposal to seize the Detroit riverfront by force,”* Antonio’s letter continued. *“He wanted to construct an unmonitored container slip to smuggle untraceable military arms and synthetic narcotics into the Midwest. When I told him that the Rossi family does not traffic in poison, and that Salvatore Bellini’s land was protected under our sacred blood oath, Vance smiled and said that old men should learn when to step aside.”*
The final paragraph of the letter was underlined twice in dark red ink:
*“Salvatore Bellini holds the duplicate keys to my private vault beneath the Chicago Board of Trade. If Salvatore is ever harmed, know that the Vance family has struck the first blow in a coup against our house. Do not negotiate. Do not seek council arbitration. Wipe them from the earth.”*
Matteo stared at his dead father’s handwriting for a full sixty seconds in complete, petrified silence.
The sixteen syndicate bosses sitting in the lounge downstairs believed that this dinner was about a strategic merger between two powerful families.
They did not know that for five years, Matteo Rossi had been sleeping with a viper in his bed, preparing to marry the daughter of the man who had poisoned his father’s legacy and assassinated his closest friend.
“He didn't just kill my father,” I breathed, the horror dawning on me like ice water. “Senator Vance was planning to eliminate you, Matteo. Once the wedding was finalized, once the properties were merged... you would have suffered a sudden ‘accident’ just like your father did.”
Matteo slowly lifted his head. The sorrow and nostalgia that had softened his features vanished, replaced by the cold, vacant detachment of a monarch preparing for total war.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a six-digit private frequency.
“Marco,” Matteo commanded into the receiver.
Over the line came the voice of Marco Moretti, the supreme commander of the northern maritime fleet:
*“We’re standing by, Don Matteo. What are your orders?”*
“Initiate Protocol Black on all Vance shipping terminals in Milwaukee, Detroit, and Gary,” Matteo ordered, his voice smooth and absolute. “Seize the container cranes. Impound their private freighters. If a single Vance security guard raises a rifle, put him in the river.”
*“Understood, boss. And the Senator?”*
Matteo looked down at the ledger, then turned his gaze toward me, his obsidian eyes locking onto mine with an unshakeable, terrifying promise.
May you like
“The Senator is about to attend a midnight trial in the cellar,” Matteo whispered. “And Chiara Bellini will be the judge.”
================================================================================
