CRIMSON VENDETTA

The Moretti Name

James found the weak point in the warehouse's eastern wall twenty minutes after waking up.

A rusted seam where the corrugated iron had pulled away from the frame, wide enough to work his fingers through. He'd braced his back against the support beam, planted his feet, and pulled until the metal screeched and gave, peeling back like a sardine can.

The alley outside was dark, narrow, and smelled like garbage and salt water. James slipped through the gap and stood in the shadows, listening. Nothing but the distant hum of the harbor, the cry of gulls somewhere out on the water.

He was free.

But he was still covered in blood. Still missing his phone, his wallet, his keys. Still couldn't remember anything after leaving Sal's Restaurant.

*One thing at a time.*

James moved through the back alleys of the Harbor District like a ghost. He knew these streets better than he knew his own reflection—every shortcut, every blind spot, every doorway that led to somewhere you weren't supposed to be. He'd grown up here, fought here, bled here. The Moretti name had been his shield and his curse for twenty-eight years.

His apartment was three blocks away, above a laundromat that Sal had bought years ago as a favor to a widow who'd lost her husband to the Valerios. James kept it deliberately modest—a one-bedroom with thin walls and a window that faced the harbor. It was the kind of place no one would look for a Moretti captain.

He climbed the fire escape, avoiding the creaking third step that would warn anyone inside that someone was coming. His keys were gone, but the lock on the fire escape door was cheap—a flick of his pocketknife and he was in.

The apartment was exactly as he'd left it. Dishes in the sink. A half-empty glass of whiskey on the counter. His mother's photo on the mantle, the one taken when she was still alive, still smiling, still not disappeared.

James went straight to the bathroom.

He stripped off his ruined shirt and stared at himself in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes shot with red, his hair matted with sweat. A bruise was forming on his right temple, purple-black and tender to the touch. He didn't remember hitting his head.

He turned on the shower and stood under the steaming water until it ran clear. The blood washed away, swirling down the drain like evidence that had never existed. He scrubbed his skin raw, scrubbed under his nails, scrubbed until the copper smell was gone from his nostrils.

*What happened to you?*

The void in his memory was still there, a gaping hole where his last hours should have been. He'd been at Sal's. He'd kissed Gianna goodnight. Then... nothing.

*Someone gave you something. Chloroform. Maybe a needle. Maybe something in your drink.*

He stepped out of the shower and dressed in fresh clothes—dark jeans, a black t-shirt, his worn leather jacket. He pulled a spare phone from the drawer, an old burner he kept for emergencies, and dialed a number he knew by heart.

It rang seven times. Then a click.

"Troy."

James's voice was rough, but he kept it steady. "You still at the Warehouse?"

"James?" Troy's voice was sharp with alarm. "Where the hell are you? I've been calling your phone for an hour. The cops are swarming the harbor—"

"Answer the question. Are you at the Warehouse?"

There was a pause. Then Troy's voice came back, quiet and controlled, the voice of a soldier who'd learned to think before he spoke. "No. I'm at Sal's. Marco called a family meeting. He said everyone was supposed to be here."

James's blood went cold. "Everyone?"

"Vale's here. Vin. Sloan. All of them. Sal said you were supposed to come with me." Troy's voice dropped lower. "James, what happened? Your phone's dead, and there are cops everywhere. They're saying there was a body—"

"Don't say another word over the phone." James's eyes darted to the window, scanning the street below. "I'm coming to Sal's. Don't tell anyone I called."

"I won't."

James killed the call and stood in the silence of his apartment, the burner phone heavy in his hand.

*Marco called a meeting.*

*The night a federal agent gets killed in a Moretti warehouse.*

*The night James gets framed.*

He reached for his spare set of keys, the ones he kept hidden in the false bottom of his kitchen drawer. He checked the Glock in his waistband—empty. He'd need to fix that.

He didn't have time. The family meeting was already in progress. If he was late, it would look suspicious. If he didn't show up, it would look worse.

James took one last look at his mother's photo, then slipped out the fire escape and into the night.

---

Sal's Restaurant was a Westport institution.

Three generations of Morettis had dined here. The red leather booths were worn smooth by decades of elbows. The checkered tablecloths were stained with a century of red wine. The smell of garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread hung in the air like a promise that nothing here would ever change.

James walked through the front door at exactly ten minutes past midnight.

The restaurant was closed to the public—the sign on the door said "Private Event." But the lights were on, and the back room was full of people.

He walked through the dining room, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and pushed open the door to the private dining room.

The meeting stopped.

Twenty faces turned toward him. Captains, soldiers, associates. The men who ran the Moretti family's day-to-day operations. They were seated around the long table in the center of the room, their plates full of food they'd barely touched, their glasses full of wine they hadn't drunk.

At the head of the table sat Marco Moretti.

He was fifty-two years old, but he looked seventy. His skin was yellowed, his eyes sunken, his hands trembling slightly against the table. The cancer was eating him alive, and everyone in the room knew it. That was why he'd called the meeting—a dying man's last attempt to shore up his legacy.

And next to Marco, in the seat that should have belonged to Sal, sat Vale.

James forced himself to breathe. He walked to the table and took his seat next to Vin, ignoring the weight of Vale's gaze on the back of his neck.

"James." Marco's voice was thin, rasping, the voice of a man who'd smoked three packs a day for forty years. "You're late."

"Had to take care of something." James reached for the bread basket, his hands perfectly steady. "What did I miss?"

Marco stared at him for a long moment. Then he looked away. "There's been a situation."

"Situation?"

"Feds are all over the harbor," Vin said, his voice low and controlled. "They're not saying what they're looking for, but they've got the entire district locked down."

"Someone killed a federal agent," Sloan added. He was Marco's consigliere, a fat man with small eyes and a permanent sheen of sweat on his bald head. "Paul Morrow. Two hours ago. They found his car near the warehouse district."

"His car," James repeated. "Not his body."

"No body yet." Sloan's eyes flickered to Vale, then back to James. "They're still looking."

James forced himself to eat a piece of bread. His stomach was in knots, but he couldn't show it. The panic was a live wire in his chest, ready to short out at any moment.

*They found his car. Not his body. Someone moved the body. Someone cleaned the warehouse.*

He looked across the table at Vale.

Vale was watching him with an expression that looked like amusement. He was the underboss, the second-in-command, a man who'd been with the Moretti family for thirty years. He was also the most dangerous person in the room.

"James," Vale said smoothly, "you look like you've seen a ghost."

"I was at the Warehouse."

The words came out before he could stop them. James felt the room go silent, felt twenty pairs of eyes turn toward him.

Marco leaned forward, his sunken eyes sharp. "You were at the Warehouse? When?"

"Earlier. I went to check on a shipment that was coming in late. No one was there. The place was empty." James shook his head. "I was going to call you, but I lost my phone. That's why I was late."

"Lost your phone," Marco repeated. "That's convenient."

"Everything's convenient tonight." James forced a bitter smile. "A federal agent's car turns up in my district, and I'm the one who happens to be late to the meeting. I know how it looks."

"How does it look?" Vale asked.

*Like I'm the one who killed him. Like I'm the one who moved the body.*

"It looks like someone's trying to start a war."

James held Vale's gaze as he said it. He didn't blink. He didn't look away.

*You set me up. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know it was you. You're the only one in this room who'd have the resources and the nerve to do it.*

Vale smiled. "That's a serious accusation, James."

"It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation."

Marco raised a trembling hand. "Enough. We didn't call this meeting to fight among ourselves. We called it because someone killed a federal agent in our territory, and that means we're going to have heat. The feds are going to come down on us like a ton of bricks. We need to be ready."

"We need to find out who did it," Vin said. "If it was one of ours—"

"It wasn't," James said flatly. "No one on my crew did this."

"You sound very sure," Vale murmured.

James turned his head slowly. "Are you accusing me of something, Vale? Because if you are, say it to my face."

The room went perfectly still.

Vale's smile didn't waver. "I'm not accusing anyone of anything. I'm just pointing out that it's very convenient that you were in the harbor district tonight. That you lost your phone. That you're the one who's been building a relationship with the federal agent's partner."

The floor dropped out from under James. "What are you talking about?"

"Tessa Rodriguez. The agent who's been working with Morrow. I know you've been talking to her, James. I know you were the one who fed her information about the Valerio's shipping routes."

"I gave her information to get her off our backs. That was the deal."

"Was it? Or did you get too close? Did you get comfortable?" Vale leaned forward, his eyes glittering in the dim light. "Because it looks to me like you're the one who had the most to lose if Morrow kept digging. And it looks to me like you're the one who's been trying to control the narrative."

*He's good. He's very good.*

James could feel the room turning against him. Could feel the suspicion creeping into the eyes of the captains, the soldiers, the men who'd known him his entire life.

Marco was staring at him with something like pity. "James—"

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Then where's your phone?" Vale asked. "Where were you when Morrow was killed?"

"I told you. I was at the Warehouse. I was checking a shipment."

"Which shipment? What was in it?"

The question hung in the air like a blade.

James's mind raced. The shipment was supposed to be a routine delivery—imported olive oil, a front for a load of untaxed cigarettes. But he'd never checked it. He'd never made it to the Warehouse.

He'd woken up there. Covered in blood.

*Someone knew about the shipment. Someone knew you were supposed to be there. Someone made sure you'd be there at the right time.*

"I don't remember."

The words came out hollow, empty. James heard them leave his mouth and realized he'd just signed his own death warrant.

"You don't *remember*?" Vale's voice was mocking, triumphant. "You don't remember what you were doing when a federal agent was killed?"

"I don't remember what happened after I left Sal's."

Marco's face had gone pale. His hands were trembling more than usual, his eyes darting between James and Vale. The cancer was eating his brain as well as his body—he was losing his grip on reality, and everyone in the room knew it.

"You're telling me," Marco said slowly, "that you can't account for your time tonight? That you have no idea where you were?"

"I was set up."

James said it with as much conviction as he could muster. He looked around the room, meeting each man's eyes, forcing them to see the truth in his face.

"Someone set me up. They drugged me. They took my phone, my wallet, my keys. They brought me to the Warehouse and left me there. I woke up with no memory of what happened."

"Convenient," Vale said again.

"No. It's not convenient. It's a nightmare." James pushed back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. "You want to know what I think? I think someone in this room is working for the Valerios. I think someone in this room killed Morrow and set me up to take the fall."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Vale's smile had disappeared. His face was a mask of cold fury, the mask of a man who'd just been publicly challenged. "You're out of line, Moretti."

"Maybe I am. But I'm not wrong."

Marco's hand slammed down on the table. His face was livid, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than reason. "*That's enough!*"

Everyone went still.

Marco looked at James. His eyes were searching, desperate, pleading. "You're my cousin, James. I've known you your whole life. I know you didn't kill that agent." He paused. "But I also know that something happened to you tonight. Something you don't want to tell me."

"I told you—"

"You told me you don't remember." Marco shook his head. "That's not the same thing."

*He knows. Somehow, he knows.*

James felt the walls closing in. He looked at Sal, sitting at the far end of the table, his face unreadable. Sal had raised him. Sal had taught him everything he knew. And Sal wasn't meeting his eyes.

"What do you want from me, Marco?"

"I want you to go home. I want you to stay there until I figure out what's going on." Marco's voice was hollow, exhausted. "I can't have you in the harbor district while the feds are tearing through it. You're a liability."

"A liability."

"Yes." Marco looked away. "I'm sorry, cousin. But you're not going to be involved in this investigation. Vale will handle it."

James looked at Vale. Saw the smirk that was trying to break through the mask of professional concern.

*He's got you. He's got you right where he wants you.*

"Fine." James stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'll go home. I'll stay out of the way. But I'm going to find out who did this. And when I do—"

"You'll do nothing." Marco's voice was final. "That's an order. You're going to stay out of this. And if I find out you've been investigating on your own, I'll have you locked up. In our own prison. Do you understand?"

James looked at his cousin. The man who'd taken over the family after his uncle Enzo died. The man who'd always resented James's relationship with Sal, who'd always seen him as a threat.

*He's afraid. He's dying, and he's afraid, and he thinks you're trying to take his crown.*

"I understand."

James walked out of the dining room without looking back.

---

The night air hit his face like a slap. James stood on the sidewalk outside Sal's Restaurant, his hands shaking, his blood singing with adrenaline.

*You were just accused of murdering a federal agent in front of your entire family. Vale set you up. Marco doesn't trust you. Sal won't meet your eyes.*

*And the only person who might know the truth is Tessa Rodriguez. Who's vanished. Who was in that warehouse with you.*

*Who saw you covered in blood.*

The door behind him opened. James turned, his hand going to his empty holster—

But it was Sal.

His uncle looked old. Old and tired and sad, the lines on his face deeper than James had ever seen them. He was carrying a brown paper bag, the kind he used for leftovers.

"You'll need these," Sal said, holding out the bag. "Your keys. Your wallet. And something to eat. You missed dinner."

James took the bag, his heart sinking. "How—"

"I found them in the kitchen. On the counter." Sal's eyes met his. "Someone brought them here tonight. They wanted me to give them to you."

"Who?"

Sal shook his head. "I don't know. There was a note. It said: 'Tell James to be careful. The Syndicate is watching.'"

James's blood went cold. The Syndicate. The faceless organization that controlled the underworld from the shadows, that no one could ever prove existed. The boogeyman that the old stories warned about.

"The Syndicate doesn't exist," James said hoarsely. "That's just a story they tell to scare new soldiers."

"Is it?" Sal looked at him with something like pity. "Son, I've been in this life for forty years. I've seen things that would make your hair curl. The Syndicate isn't a story. It's the power behind the stories."

"Then why would they warn me? If they wanted me dead—"

"They don't want you dead. They want you in their pocket. This whole night, the frame, the dead agent—it's a test." Sal gripped James's shoulder, his fingers digging in. "You passed. You survived. Now they want to see what you're going to do next."

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

Sal's eyes glittered in the darkness. "I think you're going to burn it all down. The Moretti name. The Valerios. The Syndicate. Everything."

James nodded slowly. "You'd be right."

"You're going to need help."

"Are you offering?"

Sal shook his head. "I can't. I've got my own family to protect, my own legacy to uphold. But I can give you a name. Someone who knows the truth about the Syndicate. Someone who can help you if you can get to her."

"Who?"

"She's a journalist. She's been investigating organized crime for years." Sal reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, worn and folded. "Her name is Blair. She'll help you. But you need to be careful. The Syndicate knows about her. They're watching her too."

James looked at the card. *Blair Winslow. Westport Herald.*

"Thank you, Uncle."

"I'm not your uncle tonight." Sal's face was grim. "Tonight, I'm just the man who's going to deny he ever saw you if anyone asks. Now go. And James—"

James turned back.

"Be careful. The Syndicate isn't the only thing watching you. Vale's got people everywhere. If you're not careful, you'll walk right into another trap."

"I know." James pocketed the card, the keys, the wallet. "I'm going to find Tessa. She was there. She saw something."

"Was she? Or was she part of it?"

The question hung in the air.

James didn't answer.

He walked away into the night, his uncle's warning echoing in his ears, the blood of a dead federal agent still fresh in his memory.

The vendetta had begun.

And someone was going to pay.