Chapter 7 - The Father's Forged Manifest
A collective gasp ripped through the forty syndicate commanders seated along the mahogany table.
Above the fireplace, the high-definition projection screen flared to life.
The security footage from the private gallery—retrieved from the secondary server rack—played in agonizing, high-resolution clarity.
The timestamp was clear: YESTERDAY, 03:42 PM.
The footage showed Vanessa Bellini standing beside Charles Vance as he carefully sliced through the backing of Donna Isabella’s portrait, pulling out the sealed parchment envelope.
The camera captured every word through the directional microphones:
“Once we forge the signature, fifty million clears into the Nassau account. And by tomorrow morning, Luca will be under federal arrest at the Poydras wharf.”
The banquet hall went so cold that not a single man dared to breathe.
Salvatore Bellini’s face turned the color of wet cement.
His hand shook so violently that his champagne glass shattered against the floor, vintage wine splashing across his polished shoes.
“This... this is an illegal surveillance trap!” Salvatore shouted, his voice cracking into frantic, desperate panic. “A manipulated video manufactured by my commercial rivals to break our alliance! Luca, you cannot believe this fabrication!”
Luca didn't raise his voice.
He reached into his breast pocket and tossed the forged federal manifests onto the tablecloth in front of the older mobster.
“And this, Salvatore?” Luca asked, each word falling like an iron weight. “The forged manifests claiming my grain barges were carrying military explosives, prepared for the corrupt marshals waiting at the Poydras wharf?”
He turned his gaze onto Vanessa.
Vanessa had backed away toward the buffet sideboard, her hands clutching her lace gown, her chest heaving as if she were suffocating.
“You told Elena that she caught her hand in a pantry credenza yesterday afternoon, Vanessa,” Luca whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intensity.
Vanessa began to sob, tears carving black tracks through her expensive foundation.
“Luca... please! It was my father! He lost sixty million dollars to the Tampico cartel! They were going to burn our house down! We had no choice!”
“You stood in my mother's gallery with a razor,” Luca said, his gray eyes turning to black voids of death. “And when a twenty-six-year-old girl walked into that room, you slammed a two-hundred-pound solid oak door onto her knuckles to protect your theft.”
He looked at Marco.
May you like
“Bring in the federal task force.”
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