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23: The Silent Coronation
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2026-01-09 18:59:51CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
POV: Dante Moretti
The boardroom on the 50th floor of the Moretti Plaza didn't smell of gunpowder or damp basements. It smelled of expensive espresso, Italian leather, and the clinical scent of freshly printed contracts. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was waking up, a sprawling grid of millions who had no idea that their world had been quietly reconfigured while they slept.
I watched Julian from the head of the table. He was standing by the glass, a tablet in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. He wore a slate-grey suit that screamed of corporate power, but the way he moved, balanced, alert, eyes constantly scanning the perimeter, belonged to a soldier.
"The merger is complete," Julian said, his voice echoing in the sterile room. He didn't look back at me, but I saw his reflection in the glass. "Vane Logistics and Moretti Holdings are officially a single entity. On paper, we are the largest shipping and infrastructure conglomerate on the Eastern Seaboard."
"And the off-book assets?" I asked.
"Laundered through the St. Jude’s foundation and three new shell companies in Cyprus," he replied, turning around. He tapped a command on his tablet, and the massive screen on the wall flickered to life, showing a map of the city’s docks. "The Irish have conceded Pier 12. The Russians are in full retreat back to Brighton Beach. There is no one left to challenge the tolls, Dante. We own the gate, the key, and the road."
I stood up and walked toward him. This was the vision I’d had since the night I’d forced him to sign that marriage license in the basement. I hadn't just wanted his name; I had wanted his mind. I had wanted the partner who could turn a street war into a monopoly.
"You've done in three weeks what my father couldn't do in thirty years," I said, stopping inches from him. I reached out, my fingers brushing the silver Moretti crest on his lapel. "The city is quiet because they’re afraid of you, Julian. They see the 'Golden Prince' who outplayed the FBI, and they realize that the Butcher was the easy part of this marriage."
Julian let out a short, breathy laugh. "They should be afraid. I’ve seen the ledger, Dante. I know exactly how much blood it takes to keep this city running. I’m just making sure we don't waste any of it."
He set his tablet down and leaned against the glass, looking up at me. The tension of the shipyard was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating confidence. "But a quiet city is a hungry city. The street gangs in the South End are starting to push back. They don't care about 'legitimacy' or 'shipping lanes.' They want the corners. They want the fast cash."
"Small dogs bark the loudest," I dismissed. "Marco is already handling the sweeps."
"Marco handles things with a sledgehammer," Julian countered. "We need a scalpel. If we crush them too hard, we create martyrs. If we ignore them, we look weak. I want to bring their leaders here. To this room."
I narrowed my eyes. "You want to negotiate with street thugs?"
"I want to offer them a choice," Julian said, his eyes glinting with a dark intelligence. "Work for us as the 'cleaning crew' for the docks, or get liquidated by the very police force we now partially fund. It’s not a negotiation, Dante. It’s an onboarding."
I stared at him, a slow, predatory grin spreading across my face. He wasn't just auditing the books anymore; he was auditing the soul of the organization. He was taking the chaos of the streets and turning it into a corporate hierarchy.
"You’re a terrifying man, Julian Moretti," I whispered, pulling him into my space.
"I learned from the best," he murmured, his hands sliding up to my chest.
I was about to kiss him, to claim this moment of absolute victory, when the intercom on the desk buzzed a sharp, intrusive sound.
"Sir," Marco’s voice came through, sounding uncharacteristically strained. "We have a situation at the main gate. You need to see this."
"I told you no interruptions, Marco," I growled.
"It’s... it’s your father’s car, Boss. The 1967 Bentley. And he’s in the back seat."
The air in the room suddenly felt like it had been sucked out. My heart, which had been steady for years of combat, gave a violent, painful thud.
Vincenzo "The Old Butcher" Moretti was supposed to be in permanent exile in Sicily. I had sent him there three years ago after the internal coup that gave me the throne. He was a man of the old world violent, bigoted, and obsessed with "purity."
Julian felt the change in me instantly. His body went rigid, his hand tightening on my arm. "Dante? What is it?"
"The ghost of the past just drove through the front gate," I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance.
I looked at Julian the man I had married, the man who had audited my soul and found it worth keeping. My father had no idea about the "Golden Prince." He had no idea that the Moretti name was now shared with a Vane.
"Stay here," I commanded.
"No," Julian said, his voice iron-clad. He straightened his tie and picked up his tablet. "If the 'Old Butcher' is back, he needs to meet the new management. I’m not hiding in a boardroom while you face your demons, Dante."
I looked at him, seeing the fire in his eyes. I knew then that the "Silent Coronation" was over. The war for the city was won, but the war for the family was just beginning.
"He won't like you," I warned.
"Good," Julian replied. "I've never been fond of ghosts anyway."
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