The Mafia’s Reckoning

Chapter one

The scent of blood clung to the room like expensive cologne—thick, coppery, and impossible to ignore. The body lay sprawled across a mahogany desk, one arm dangling limply over the edge. Carlo Ventresca, billionaire real estate mogul and longtime associate of the Morano family, was dead. His throat had been slit with surgical precision, his eyes frozen wide in a final moment of terror.

Detective Marcus Hale stood in the doorway, grim-faced, surveying the scene. “This wasn’t a message,” he muttered to his partner. “This was personal.”

Behind him, the forensic team worked in silence, flashes of their cameras bouncing off the walls of Carlo’s penthouse office. The skyline glimmered through floor-to-ceiling windows behind the corpse, the city alive and indifferent. Blood soaked the collar of Carlo’s suit, and the deep crimson was a stark contrast to the ivory silk. A single playing card was placed on the desk beside him—an ace of spades, pristine and deliberate.

Hale lifted the card with gloved fingers and exchanged a look with his partner.

“The Morano signature,” he said flatly. “Someone wants us to believe this was Alex.”

Two hours earlier, Alex Morano leaned against the balcony of a luxury lounge downtown, the city humming below him in a blur of neon and noise. A glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers, untouched.

Inside, the birthday party raged on—some minor cousin’s celebration, full of fake smiles and forced toasts. The Morano name drew both admiration and fear, and gatherings like this always felt more like political summits than family affairs. He watched his older brother, Dominic, holding court at the bar, laughing too loudly, flashing too many teeth.

Alex turned away.

He hated these events. Hated the pretense. The way everyone looked at him as if he were nothing more than a shadow of his father’s legacy—a son with no real authority, no thirst for power, just a placeholder in a family built on blood.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

He answered on instinct.

“You should sit down,” a voice said, calm and cold. “Carlo Ventresca is dead. And your name is already circling the crime scene.”

Click.

Alex stared at the screen. The call had ended. No ID. No second ring.

Behind him, laughter echoed from inside. He placed his drink on the balcony rail and walked back through the crowd like a man stepping into a warzone.

By the time he arrived at the Morano estate, the gates were already open, two of his father’s men waiting at the steps. He didn’t recognize either of them.

“Inside,” one said. “Now.”

The main hall was eerily quiet. Oil paintings of dead men stared down at him as he moved through the house. Alex’s father, Vito Morano, is the head of the Morano crime syndicate. A man who had built an empire on fear, silence, and strategic bloodshed. Vito’s presence alone could chill a room, and tonight, the chill was absolute. He stood at the head of the long dining table, flanked by Dominic and two other capos. Their expressions were unreadable.

Dominic is Alex’s older brother and the designated heir to the family throne, scoffed.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” Dominic said, his voice low and venomous.

“I just got the call,” Alex replied. “I didn’t—”

“Save it,” his father interrupted. His voice was calm. Too calm. “Carlo’s dead. Found in his office with a Morano calling card next to the body. And guess whose name is being whispered in every corner of this city?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “You think I did this?”

“We don’t know what to think,” Vito said. “But the cops are sniffing around, and you were the last one seen meeting with him two days ago. What the hell were you discussing?”

“Property disputes. He wanted out of a deal with the Russos. He was afraid. Said something was coming.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell is your name at his crime scene?” Dominic growled, slamming a fist on the table.

Alex took a step forward. “Someone’s setting me up. You know it. The Russos have wanted to frame one of us for years. Carlo was about to flip, and they silenced him before he could.”

Vito exhaled slowly, then turned to his capos. “We’ll find out who really did this. But until then, Alex is under house watch. No contact with outsiders. No interference. If the police bring charges, we’ll handle it.”

Alex’s blood ran cold. “You’re locking me up?”

“You’re a liability,” Dominic spat. “And liabilities get people killed.”

Vito’s gaze never wavered. “You’ll stay in the north wing. Until we find out if this is a setup—or if you really did put a knife to Carlo’s throat.”

Blood was thicker than water—but tonight, it felt like poison in Alex Morano’s veins.

Alex stood there, staring at his father, the patriarch of a kingdom built on fear and blood, and felt something inside him fracture. He’d been loyal. He’d kept his hands clean when he could and dirtied them when he had to. But now they looked at him like a traitor. Like a killer.

The silence between them stretched, brittle, and charged.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, quieter now, trying to rein in the storm inside him. “You think I’d murder Carlo? He was one of the few people in this life I respected.”

“That may be,” Vito said, “but perception is everything. Right now, the streets are talking. Cops are sniffing around. And if the Russos are behind this, they’re playing it smart. Which means we can’t afford mistakes. Or emotions.”

Alex turned away for a moment, pacing toward the tall windows that overlooked the estate grounds. The sky outside was dark, the city beyond the iron gates pulsing with lights and lies. Somewhere out there, the real killer walked free while he became the scapegoat.

“Carlo was scared,” Alex muttered. “He knew something was coming. I think he was trying to cut ties with everyone—to disappear. He told me the Russos were making moves, getting desperate. That they had someone on the inside feeding them intel.”

Dominic scoffed. “And let me guess—you were the only one he confided in?”

Alex spun around. “If you think I wanted Carlo dead, then you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“We know you’ve always walked the edge,” Dominic shot back. “Acting like you’re better than the rest of us. Like the rules don’t apply to you.”

“That’s enough,” Vito snapped, his voice slicing through the room like a blade. “Dominic, out.”

His eldest son hesitated, then stormed out, muttering under his breath.

Vito turned to Alex, his eyes dark and unreadable. “We’re being hunted, son. Do you think I can afford to play favorites now? You’ll stay under this roof. No one sees you. No one hears from you. Until I say otherwise.”

“And if the police come for me?”

“Then we’ll make sure they never reach the door.”

Alex didn’t respond. He walked out without another word, his footsteps echoing through the marble hallways of the estate. He didn’t need their protection. What he needed was answers.

His room in the north wing hadn’t changed. It was cold, minimalist, untouched since his last stay years ago. Alex stood by the window, staring out at the garden below, lit faintly by moonlight. Somewhere out there, someone had set him up. Someone who knew exactly how to play the Moranos against each other.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

It creaked open before he answered.

Diego Vega stepped inside, sharp-suited and expressionless. Loyal to the bone, Diego had been more of a brother to Alex than Dominic ever was. They’d grown up together, fought together, bled together.

“I had to sneak past two guards just to get in here,” Diego said quietly. “They’re treating you like a ticking bomb.”

Alex forced a bitter smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Diego tossed a folder onto the bed. “I pulled what I could from the initial report. Carlo’s time of death was between ten and midnight. Security cameras were wiped. No fingerprints. Clean job. But someone left that calling card on purpose. Too clean.”

“So a frame-up,” Alex said, flipping through the photos—Carlo’s lifeless body, the ace of spades beside him, and the blood pooled like dark ink across his desk.

“Looks like it. And it gets worse.” Diego lowered his voice. “One of the detectives working the case? He’s been on the Morano payroll for years. But now he’s radio silent. Vanished.”

Alex clenched his jaw. “They’re cutting us off at every angle.”

“Someone wants this to implode from the inside.”

A long silence passed between them. Then Alex looked up, fire behind his eyes.

“Get me out of here.”

Diego raised an eyebrow. “You serious? Vito will have my head.”

“I’m not going to sit in this damn room while they burn me alive. I need to find out who really killed Carlo. I need to figure out who’s pulling the strings—and I can’t do it locked behind these walls.”

Diego hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Give me a few hours. I’ll find you a way out. But Alex…” He stepped closer. “Whoever did this? They knew exactly where to hit. And they’re not done yet.”

Alex looked out the window, the city calling to him like a challenge.

“Then let’s make sure we hit back first.”