Chapter 4 - The Dinner of Lies
Z
The dining room of the Gallo estate was a cavernous hall of imported Italian marble, crystal chandeliers, and Renaissance tapestries. It was designed to intimidate, to remind anyone who sat at the twenty-foot mahogany table that they were in the presence of royalty. Tonight, it was a stage set for the greatest performance of my life.
I sat at the head of the table, dressed in a flawless charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie. To my right sat Marco.
My younger brother was the picture of relaxed confidence. He wore a navy-blue tailored suit, his dark hair slicked back, a gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist. He laughed easily, cutting into his Veal Marsala with the grace of a man who didn't have a care in the world. To anyone else, he looked like a devoted brother enjoying a traditional Sunday dinner. To me, he looked like a walking corpse.
“The veal is exceptional tonight, Antonio,” Marco said, raising his glass of Barolo wine in my direction. “Your new chef is really outdoing himself.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Marco,” I replied, my voice smooth, hiding the venom that coursed through my veins. “You always did have an expensive palate. Sometimes I wonder if this family’s legitimate businesses are enough to keep you satisfied.”
Marco chuckled, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Come on, Tony. You know me. I’m a man of simple tastes. As long as the family is strong, I’m happy. Speaking of which, how are the South Side ports? I heard a rumor that Lucchese is sniffing around the docks again, looking for a weakness.”
I didn't blink. I didn't tense. I casually sliced a piece of veal, chewing it slowly before answering. “Lucchese is a scavenger. He eats what I leave behind. As long as I am breathing, he will never set foot on our docks. My security is airtight. Every guard, every captain, every shipment is under my direct control.”
Marco’s eyes flashed with something dark and fleeting. Anticipation. “Of course, Tony. You’re untouchable. But you’ve been working so hard lately. You look… tired. You should take care of your heart. Stress is a silent killer in our line of work.”
The audacity of the statement almost made me laugh out loud. He was taunting me, playing with his food while waiting for the poison to take effect. He knew that eleven o'clock was approaching. He knew it was almost time for my nightly ritual.
“You’re right, Marco,” I sighed, feigning a subtle weariness, letting my shoulders slump just a fraction of an inch. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Perhaps I do need to rest. Perhaps it’s time to start passing some of the heavier responsibilities down to you.”
Marco’s posture stiffened immediately. He tried to hide his eager excitement, but I saw the twitch in his jaw, the sudden brightness in his eyes.
“I am always here for you, brother,” Marco said smoothly, leaning forward. “Whatever you need. If you ever need me to step up and handle the capos, or manage the accounts, I’m ready. I’ve learned from the best.”
“I know you have,” I said softly, locking eyes with him. “Loyalty is the most important thing in this family, Marco. Blood is blood. A man who betrays his own blood deserves a fate worse than death. Wouldn't you agree?”
A microscopic flicker of unease crossed Marco’s face, but he quickly recovered, smiling warmly. “Absolutely. Death to traitors. Always.”
The grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room began to chime. Eleven o'clock.
Right on cue, the heavy double doors opened, and Linda walked in.
She was dressed in her standard black and white uniform, carrying a silver tray. On the tray rested a heavy crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and a single crystal tumbler. My Macallan.
I watched Marco out of the corner of my eye. His entire body went rigid. His breath hitched slightly as his gaze locked onto the decanter. He was practically vibrating with anticipation.
Linda’s hands were trembling so badly that the crystal clinked against the silver tray. She looked pale, terrified, completely shattered. Marco likely interpreted her fear as the guilt of a woman who had just poisoned her boss. I knew it was the fear of a mother who was praying my plan would work.
She set the tray down beside my right hand. She didn't look at me. She didn't look at Marco.
“Will that be all, Mr. Gallo?” she whispered, her voice cracking perfectly.
“Yes, Linda. Thank you. You may retire for the night,” I said.
She practically ran out of the room.
I reached out and grasped the heavy crystal stopper of the decanter. I pulled it out with a soft pop. I could feel Marco staring at my hands. I poured a generous measure of the whiskey into the tumbler.
“To family,” I said, raising the glass toward Marco.
Marco raised his wine glass, a victorious, predatory smirk finally breaking through his composed facade. “To family, Antonio. Drink up.”
May you like
I brought the glass to my lips. I let the liquid touch my tongue. And then, I drank it down in one smooth swallow. Distilled water mixed with fine scotch.
I set the glass down, smiled at my brother, and waited for the show to begin.
