Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Kitchen
Marcus Moretti’s smile vanished instantly. "You're out of your mind, Salvatore. The Commission gave the South Docks to my family three years ago."
"The Commission gave you the docks when they thought I was dead," Dominic said, signaling to his lawyer, who stepped forward and laid a thick leather folder on the white tablecloth. "This folder contains the financial logs showing you channeled six million dollars of Commission funds into an off-shore account in Panama without clearing it through the table."
The other four family bosses sitting around the table immediately turned their heads toward Marcus, their eyes darkening with sudden, lethal suspicion.
Marcus’s jaw worked silently. "That's a fabrication—"
"It's a verified bank trail," Dominic interrupted smoothly. "Sign the transfer of the South Docks to the Salvatore family, Marcus. Or we take a vote right here on whether you leave this restaurant on your feet."
The tension in the room rose to a fever pitch. I sat rigid in my silk dress, my hand gripping my cloth napkin beneath the table until my knuckles turned white.
Marcus stared at Dominic for ten agonizing seconds. Slowly, his hand reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a gold fountain pen, and signed the legal parchment inside the leather folder.
"Smart choice," Dominic said, taking the folder back.
He turned to me, his tone instantly softening. "Excuse me for a moment, Emma. I need to clear the transfer with our financial counsel in the lobby."
He stood up and walked toward the private office near the front entrance, accompanied by two guards.
I sat at the table for three minutes, feeling the burning glare of Marcus Moretti from across the room. The air felt suffocating.
"I need some air," I whispered to the waiter, standing up from the table.
I walked down the secondary hallway toward the lady's restroom near the service elevator.
Just as I reached the quiet corridor, a heavy hand grabbed my arm from behind, pulling me violently into the dark service kitchen.
I tried to scream, but a thick, leather-gloved palm slammed over my mouth.
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Marcus Moretti stood over me, his face twisted in a murderous rage, a suppressed pistol pressed hard against my ribs.
"You ruined everything, you little bitch," Marcus spat into my ear, his breath smelling of stale wine and tobacco. "You were supposed to let him burn in that car."
