Chapter 4 - The Grand Dining Room
The great dining room was a monument to old-world mafia grandeur. Two immense crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant, fiery glow over a table carved from a single slab of Italian walnut, polished until it mirrored the ceiling above. Around the perimeter stood six armed bodyguards in dark suits, their expressions unreadable, hands clasped behind their backs.
At the head of the table sat Lorenzo Moretti.
Seen up close, Lorenzo possessed an aura that was almost suffocating. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the intricate religious and tribal tattoos curling up his throat, centered around a silver crucifix that rested against his chest. His features were chiseled from stone—sharp, merciless, with gray eyes that seemed to strip away the thoughts of anyone who dared make eye contact. He radiated absolute command.
Beside him, wheeled in with great ceremony by two junior footmen, was Giovanni.
The scene was constructed like a painting of domestic harmony. Giovanni had been placed at the right hand of his son, seated in a high-backed velvet armchair that had been retrofitted with hidden wheels. The table before him was dressed in the finest porcelain, fine crystal wine goblets, and silver platters piled high with fresh grapes, roasted meats, and artisanal breads.
Behind Giovanni stood Mrs. Gable, dressed in her sharp black blazer, her hands folded primly in front of her. Her face wore the practiced, reverent smile of a devoted servant.
"The chef has outdone himself tonight, Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Gable said smoothly, stepping forward to pour a glass of sparkling water. "Your father has been looking forward to this meal all week. He has such a wonderful appetite when he is surrounded by family."
Lorenzo did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on his father’s face.
The young Don studied the frail, weathered contours of the man who had once ruled an underworld kingdom with an iron will. Giovanni sat motionless, his silver hair neatly styled, his hands resting on the crisp linen napkin spread across his lap.
"He looks thinner, Gable," Lorenzo remarked, his voice deep, gravelly, and quiet. It was the kind of voice that made people instinctively hold their breath.
Mrs. Gable did not flinch, though her smile tightened slightly at the corners. "The doctor explained that as the neuromuscular deterioration advances, mild muscle wasting is entirely normal, sir. But rest assured, his nutrition is strictly monitored. He receives pureed organic broths, fresh protein supplements, and round-the-clock physical therapy. He is peaceful. We give him everything."
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, picking up a heavy crystal glass filled with vintage Scotch. He swirled the amber liquid slowly. "He hasn't spoken a word since I was last here in June?"
"Not a sound, sir," Gable replied with practiced sorrow. "His cognitive decline is quite severe. The specialists agree that the lights are on, but the Don is no longer really there. He doesn't register faces, places, or conversations. We simply provide him with comfort."
Down by the service pantry, Nora stood holding a heavy silver tray containing water pitchers and clean linen napkins. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. Every word coming out of Mrs. Gable’s mouth was poison—a calculated, treasonous lie designed to keep an old man trapped in misery while she drained his fortune.
Nora looked across the gleaming room and locked eyes with Giovanni.
The Don was not staring into space. He was looking directly at his son. And in his dark, unblinking eyes, there was no dementia. There was grief. There was the agony of a father who could not speak to his child, surrounded by traitors who controlled his very breath.
Then, Giovanni turned his head a fraction of an inch and looked directly at Nora.
His gaze was deliberate. He dropped his chin slightly, motioning toward the table.
May you like
Mrs. Gable noticed the pause in the room and snapped her fingers toward the pantry. "You there—maid! Bring the fresh water pitcher to the head table. Quickly now, don't keep the master waiting."
Nora’s legs felt like lead, but she swallowed her fear, picked up the silver pitcher, and stepped out across the polished marble floor.
