Blood and Betrayal (LunaEssence x Freezn)

[LunaEssence]

NEW YORK ORGANIZED CRIME TASK FORCE

Undercover Assignment Profile — CONFIDENTIAL // EYES ONLY

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SUBJECT: D'AMATO, ANGELINA MARIA​

UC Call Sign: VESPER
Name: Angelina Maria D'Amato
Alias: Marianna Marino
DOB: 1965-07-14 (Age 30) • Ethnicity: Italian-American • Origin: Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
Assignment Code: OPERATION ORPHEUS-95
Status: ACTIVE (Month 5, deep cover)
Cover Role: Compliance & Contracts Advisor (hospitality/realty fronts); companion to Carlo "Charmer" Vitelli
Primary Target: MORETTI CRIME SYNDICATE (Cosa Nostra)
Objective: Penetrate upper-echelon social/business layer; collect evidence of racketeering, RICO predicate acts, money laundering, conspiracy

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CHAIN OF COMMAND​

Case Agent / Handler: Lt. Raymond DeLuca (OCTF)
Interagency Liaison: SA Carla Ruiz (FBI-OCCB)
Psych Oversight: Dr. Evelyn Shaw

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TARGET HIERARCHY (FOCUS)​

Don/Boss: Salvatore "Sal" Moretti
Underboss / Capo Bastone: Angelo "The Ghost" Moretti
Consigliere: Antonio "Tone Tony" Siciliano
Caporegimes: Marco "The Bookie" Romano • Frankie "No Nose" Bellini • Dominic "Ice" Vescari • Rocco "Rock" Manzetti • Carlo "Charmer" Vitelli
Additional Influence: Anthony "Silk Tones" Moretti (heir apparent, enforcer) • Lucia Moretti (social/political nexus)

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ENTRY VECTOR & LEGEND​

Legend Summary: "Marianna Marino," Manhattan-born compliance specialist with past paralegal experience, contract temping for nightlife/restaurant groups; old neighborhood ties in the Bronx via a hair salon owner (real friend asset: S. Romano).

Insertion: Gained access to The Aureum (Moretti front) as short-term "permitting fixer" during ABC licensing review (Q1 '95).
Subject flagged DOB filing conflicts and coached manager through corrective affidavit.
Charm Event → Vitelli: During follow-up audit, subject defused inspector ("let me help ya be the hero here") while producing a "misplaced" floor-load letter; saved venue from immediate closure. Vitelli observed, initiated drinks "to say grazie," escalated to meetings, Month 2; recognized girlfriend by Month 3

Gatekeepers Won: Bar manager (De Palma) → house counsel runner (R. Nuzzi) → Carlo "Charmer" Vitelli (caporegimes/legal fronts).

Cred Build: Vendor contract cleanups, shell entity shielding, timely permit rescues; seamless social integration at club and private dinners.

Social Anchor: Began public companionship with Vitelli after Month 2; evolved to recognized girlfriend by Month 3.

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MISSION TASKING​

-Secure paper trail connecting The Aureum and "Hudson Mutual Holdings" shells to off-book cash drops.
-Identify consiglieri-led dispute resolutions and document coercion channels.
-Plant audio at rotating venues (banquet spaces, club office, car service) per schedule ORPHEUS-95/ROT.
-Map Lucia Moretti's influence ops and marriage-alliance rumors.

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COVER SUPPORT & PROTOCOLS​

Documents: NYS notary card (legend), vendor badges, temp-agency invoices, burner pager.

Emergency Exfil: Code phrase "I left the light on" → handler triggers pickup at Lexington/59th, south side.

Dead Drop: Eaton Place newsstand, Box 14, Tuesdays pre-10 AM.

Do Not Expose: True idenity. SoS protocol if exposed

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Filed: 1995-06-02 • Classification: SECRET • Distribution: OCTF / FBI OCCB



CHAPTER ONE — GLASS & GILT​

The city wore evening like a mink thrown over bare shoulders—brazen and a little cold. Midtown climbed the sky in mirrored teeth as the town car slid up to Rockefeller Plaza. The Rainbow Room's chandeliers burned like captured constellations forty floors above, and every man stepping out on the carpet pretended he'd hung them there himself.

Marianna Marino—Angelina under the skin—let the city's light spill against her like champagne. Six months inside and the legend fit like silk: black slip dress, heirloom gold, the smile that made men think the room had warmed just for them.

Carlo "Charmer" Vitelli offered his arm at the carpet when her first, lethally sharp heel stepped out of the vehicle. "Stellina, you're trouble."

She slid in close, eyes laughing, her voice like smooth velvet laced with a polished Brooklyn accent. "Only the good kind, yeah? The kind you brag about in confession."

He grinned, delighted. "Capisce. Then tonight, you're my miracle."

"Miracles ain't free," she murmured, brushing his lapel smooth. "You want charm, you feed me first."

Inside, the Rainbow Room turned above Manhattan like a slow gold clock, and she moved the way a practiced hostess moves: cheek-kisses, wrist-touches, a laugh that rang like a spoon on crystal. Just as she practiced countless times before. "Auguri, Judge," to a roped-shoulder man with a tan too deep for February. "Mrs. Ferraro, you look like a Valentino sketch," to a councilman's wife whose smile doubled under the compliment. To the maître d': "Do me a solid, tesoro—two seats by the north windows? My guy promised me the view."

Carlo watched her work the floor, pride softening his eyes. "Look at you," he said under the band's "Summer Wind," "givin' lessons."

She bumped his shoulder. "Please. I'm just sayin' hello like my ma taught me."

The assignment had started with paper and nerve. The Aureum was two signatures from a shutdown when she breezed in with a leather folder and a smile. "You're short a floor-load letter and the railing height reads wrong," she'd told the sweating manager, voice velvet-warm. "But I got a guy at DOB who hates mess. We bring cannoli, we fix the mess." By the time the inspector arrived, she'd staged a tidy miracle: corrected plans, fresh affidavit, a polite route to 'compliance pending.' Carlo had watched from the bar, sipping Campari, clocking the way the inspector lowered his voice when she touched his elbow.

Afterward, on the curb, he'd offered her his lighter. "You always make federal problems look like coffee stains?"

She'd taken a drag, mouth curving slightly. "Only when the shirts are expensive."

From there it became late-night contract clinics and daytime drives in a town car that smelled like cedar and money. Carlo learned her rhythms; she learned his tells. When he was nervous, he rolled his cufflink. When he lied, his left eye smiled a breath too slow. He treated her like a queen in public: chairs pulled out, doors opened, the gentle palm at her back saying mine.

Tonight, he guided her into the center of the turning world. "We pay respects, we get the view, we dance. Sound good, bella?"

She tilted a grin. "You dance, I don't press charges."

They made rounds. Marco "The Bookie" Romano laughed so hard at her wisecrack about "accountants with rosaries" he slapped the table; Frankie "No Nose" Bellini kissed both cheeks and called her fortuna; Dominic "Ice" Vescari appraised her like she was a well-cut stone and said nothing at all. Rocco "Rock" Manzetti lifted his glass and she answered with a wink that said I see you, paesà. Anthony "Silk Tones" Moretti drifted past with a cadre of enforcers, the room bending to his wake; she filed the geometry of power the way a painter studies light. Lucia Moretti floated through a knot of donors in columnar silk; Lucia's smile met hers, two women measuring the angles of a room. A woman's touch and her perspective are always needed in some shape or form.

Carlo leaned to murmur, "You're a natural, Anna."

"Nah," she said, brushing his tie straight. "I just remember names. And I let people be shiny." She squeezed his fingers. "Now be shiny, amore."

Carlo may not have known how deep that ran, but Angelina had worked tirelessly to remember each name, each role, every single tie in, their roots, their responsibilities, all of it. This night was a crucial one. A night where she had to be believable in everyone's eyes and not just Carlo's. It was her debut. The beautiful blonde that Carlo couldn't get enough of, kicking off rumors about this charismatic woman. This was her chance to be accepted by the others and gain their trust to be a part of their family.

When the assignment first landed on DeLuca's desk, she'd kept her face like winter glass. She took the manila file home and opened the hierarchy at her kitchen table. Salvatore. Angelo "The Ghost." The capos. And then the line that rewired her pulse: Antonio "Tone Tony" Siciliano — Consigliere. She'd finished her coffee, washed the cup, and stared at the running water for God knows how long. Fucking, Tony. The part of Angelina's brain that was in denial didn't allow her to believe that Tony got deeper into the illicit world after she left. The other rational part of her brain was screaming, "Of course, he's a mafioso." "Of course, he rose in ranks."

The Rainbow Room rotated again; conversation braided and unbraided. She slipped out of Carlo's arm to take a woman's hand between both of hers. "Signora Romano, the way that emerald sits on you? Mamma mia. Tell me your jeweler so I can bankrupt Carlo properly." Laughter. Another cheek-kiss. A promise of introductions that she would never need, but everyone adored offering. Back to Carlo. She tucked herself under his arm, warm and public.

A pocket of space quieted across the room, the way air goes still before rain. Her body felt it first—the old weather moving in. She followed the subtle pivot of heads and the respectful step-aside of men who rarely stepped aside. He stood under a chandelier light that glinted the strands of his hair and set his profile in a precise, merciless line. Taller than memory, composed, eyes that could peel paint or bless it. The room recalibrated by instinct. It was him.

Carlo's palm settled at her spine. "North windows," he said, voice low with pleasure and performance. "Then we make nice with The Ghost and Tone Tony." His thumb traced a lazy circle, possessive, practiced. "You good, stellina?"

She met his eyes and smiled softly at him "I'm good. I'm gorgeous. And I'm starvin'. Buy me a plate of those little crab cakes and I'll even laugh at your jokes."

"My jokes are premium."

"They're adorable. Like you."

He laughed, that easy, public sound people trusted. On the way to the windows she shed compliments like confetti: "Judge, your tie's doin' the Lord's work." "Silk Tones, you keep stealin' the band's applause, I'm sendin' you a bill." "Lucia, tesoro, you look like a headline." Each line was a thread; together they made a net. Everyone loved her. They adored Marianna. She felt Carlo glow beside her.

Near the glass, the skyline broke open—rivers like molten pewter, bridges strung with stars. Carlo turned her to face him, thumbs resting at her waist as if there were music already playing. "After the handshakes," he said, "we dance."

She tapped his chin with a manicured finger. "And after the dance?" her silky tone purred at him.

"We eat."

"And?"

"We behave." However, the sinful smile that arched along his lips told her other things. "And I take you back home. Together.”

"To misbehave?"

"This is why I said you trouble." It was Angelina's turn to have a wicked smile on her dainty features.

"If I behave now, then misbehave with me later. Deal?"

"Deal."

Babbeo.

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They pivoted as the band slid into "The Best Is Yet to Come," and New York turned beneath their feet like a record. Angelina shifted her weight, the dancer's ease that always lived in her spine, and felt the whole room become a stage.

"Come," Carlo started. "Tonight we're rubbin' elbows, capisce? Smile, take a bow. You my lucky charm. 'Member that." And from there, with her dainty hand laced around his arm, Carlo led Angelina to the head honchos.

 

[Freezn]

NEW YORK ORGANIZED CRIME TASK FORCE
Suspect of Interest Case File — CONFIDENTIAL // EYES ONLY

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SUBJECT: SICILIANO, ANTONIO VINCENZO
Known Aliases: "Tone," "Tony," "Tone Tony," "Anton," "Vince"
DOB: 1962-07-28 (Age 33)
Ethnicity: Sicilian-American
Position: Consigliere (Chief of Staff)
Status: ACTIVE — Focus Target
Affiliations: Moretti Crime Syndicate , Cosa Nostra, The Aureum, Bellissimo Catering Co., Siciliano & Sons Contracting, Metropolitan Teamsters Local 432, International Dockworkers Brotherhood, Local 98, Royal Crown Vending Co., Hudson Management Group, First Continental Brokerage, Sunrise Imports LLC., Our Lady of Grace Roman Catholic Church, REDACTED, REDACTED

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TARGET SIGNIFICANCE (Overview)

• Acting Consigliere to Salvatore Moretti head of Moretti Crime Syndicate.
• Believed to broker political favors through State Assembly contacts.
• Reputation for "velvet violence": persuasive, calculating, favors coercion over spectacle.
• Maintains significant banking and financial ties: Chase Manhattan (domestic), Banco Ambrosiano (Italy), and several shell institutions.
• Maintains significant, business and union ties: Review affiliations for full listing, The Aureum, Metropolitan Teamsters Local 432, International Dockworkers Brotherhood most notable.

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RECENT SURVEILLANCE NOTES

"Tony is a ruthless bastard. He'll invite you to dinner, buy you a drink, kiss your ma on the cheek. Then hell break your skull in with the wine bottle and then sells tickets to the funeral."
— OCTF Informant #473​

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Filed: 1995-06-02 • Classification: SECRET • Distribution: OCTF / FBI OCCB


CHAPTER ONE — GLASS & GILT​

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The faucet hissed, and scarlet bled into porcelain. Antonio Siciliano stood under the harsh lights of the staff kitchen, sleeves rolled back, washing his hands like a surgeon after an operation. No tremor in his fingers, no hesitation in the rhythm; just the slow, practiced removal of another man's arrogance. The water spiraled meaty crimson, then pink, then clear.

Behind him, the private lounge door clicked shut, releasing the whisper of muffled protests that had gone hoarse ten minutes ago. A senator's aide… maybe? Or was this one the deputy commissioner? Tony couldn't quite recall. He had stopped bothering with titles, reasons and names once the lesson landed. Everyone bled the same color. Everyone understood compliance when taught in the right key.

He dried his hands on linen, not paper. Folded the towel. Straightened his cufflinks, gold and sparkling, catching the overhead light like a venetian's smile, all glittering and bright. The mirror threw back the image of a man composed, immaculate, untouched. Not a speck left, not even in the eyes.

With a sniff, Tony brushed his hands back through his dark hair and then turned down the hall. The staff that had been flowing back and forth evaporated, finding anywhere else to be as he stalked back towards civilization. Towards the veneer of society that Tony lived for.

The doors parted ways and the sweet succulent tunes of the live band danced their way to his ears. The sparkle of the chandelier working in tandem with the flutes of crystal and glass radiating a soft glow that reminded Tony of the night sky. The sway of the crowd, his family and their "friends" lulling him back into the steps of society. Steps he had been groomed into over a decade.

Silk had beaten him out onto the floor. His closest friend and prince to an empire that had given Tony everything. Silk was sharp, angular; slick. His hair swept back and his pin stripe suit immaculate. He was every bit as composed as Tony himself was, despite the efforts he had shared in showing the Moretti expectations of compliance. The pair were often described as the differing sides of the same coin. Whereas Tony strolled out into the hall with a broad welcoming grin, Silk was staring down his dance partner, some broad that would only be around for the night, with a pointed fierceness that would crumble lesser men.

The two slipped back into the current of the ballroom like seasoned swimmers in their own way. Tony found a glass of bourbon as he joined the various crowds and tables. The dark liquor burned low in his chest as he greeted the commissioner with a clap on the shoulder. "Commissioner," Tony shared a smile, all teeth and warmth. "If the city runs any smoother, you'll put me outta work." They laughed, not the genuine sort of camaraderie that he shared with the family. But the kind that masked nerves.

Two steps later he was leaning toward a shipping magnate, murmuring in conspiratorial tones. "That new terminal deal? Don't sweat the votes. I've got friends who like their ports open." The magnate grinned, relief blooming across his face. Another debt banked, catalogued and filed away to be called upon with interest.

Frankie No Nose dragged him into a bear hug, laughing out a weasel like sound through his nose. "Tony! You still robbin' priests to pay politicians?"
"Only the priests who forget how to tithe," Tony fired back, smooth as the black brioni suit he wore.

He moved on, and on weaving with the current, cataloging smiles, handshakes, whispers. Just as Vinny taught him. The Rainbow Room shimmered, a pedestal of wealth, intrigue, and favors woven in blood above the city skyline. It was a world of its own. A stage where Antonio Siciliano knew every line of the play.

Judge Carvelli was teetering by the bar, a short glass sweating in his hand. Tony slid in, clinking his bourbon against the judge's scotch.
"Judge, I gotta say that ruling on the Ackley case last month? Poetic. You write opinions like Sinatra sings ballads."
Carvelli's laugh came out wheezy and pleased, his eyes darting nervously around the room as if the compliment were contraband. "Ah, Tony, you're too kind."
"Not kind," Tony said, his hand engulfing the smaller man's shoulder in a squeeze. "Accurate. Poeti don't get enough credit in this city. I make sure they do. Speaking of there's this artist coming to town…"

A few tables down, he caught sight of Councilman Ferraro and his wife, the kind of couple with an extra chair in the corner of the bedroom. Tony bowed low over the wife's hand, kissing the air just above her knuckles.
"Signora Ferraro, you look like Botticelli sketched you himself. Mamma mia," Tony clucked his tongue. "if I wasn't Catholic, I'd be lighting candles in your honor tonight."
The woman flushed, her pearls trembling with the pleased laugh she tried to keep restrained. The councilman's jaw tightened, as the jealousy slithered like poison in his veins. But Tony only wanted him to taste it, not choke.
"And you, amico mio, keep your speeches as short as your wife's pazienza, and you'll be governor in ten years. You've my word on that."
A quick wink. A devilish smirk. An understated understanding. Ferraro barked a laugh he didn't mean, and the deal was struck.

At a corner table sat a young attorney from one of the Morettis' fronts, Tony couldn't recall his name. He was green. Sickly green. Desperate to be noticed and make a splash but drowning in grandeur of it all. Tony stopped for a seat, leaning in and speaking low.
"You keeping your head straight, yeah? Don't forget that men remember the avvocati who save 'em from headaches. Speaking of," Tony pointed out into the crowd. "See that big fella there, with the bowl cut that's looking like three day dead road kill? That's Paul Martuci. Why don't you go ask 'im about his sister's farm?"
The kid nodded furiously, the sweat on his brow practically glistening under the lights. He fumbled in his seat, half racing to stand, half scared to leave without being dismissed. Tony patted his cheek like a benevolent zio, then moved on before the poor bastard fainted. "Grazie."

He circled back toward the center of the room, each interaction another stitch in the web: a compliment to a banker's moglie, a joke to ease a friend's girl, a quiet nod to a waiter who was prompt with the service.

By the time he caught sight of Silk again the Moretti prince was leaning lazily against a carpeted wall, drink in hand, giving some povera ragazza the kind of stare that melted her into her seat.

Silk raised his glass in a half-salute when he saw Tony coming.
"Eh, compare," Tony said with a grin, "look at you. Giocando duro with the girls again?"
Silk smirked, tipping his glass. "Che vuoi, Tony? You take the pols, I take the belle donne. Fair division of labor, no?"
Tony chuckled, a low rumble that was scarcely audible as the band broke into Sinatra. "Just don't marry one, eh? Trouble starts when they think it's forever."

"Speaking of trouble, think you've some competition out there." With a tilt of his head, Silk led Tony's eyes to a flash of gold he'd been half avoiding all night.

Gold. Gold under the chandelier. A laugh like crystal struck true. A smile that poured like sunlight. The appreciative ease that lured a room in like bees to nectar. It was the undeniable presence that made a room turn. For Antonio Siciliano, it made him break into a sweat.

Angelina Maria D'Amato.

It couldn't be.

His chest tightened as though he were a frog in a toddler's hand. For a moment, the whole glitzy, glamour of the Rainbow Room dulled. The band's trumpet all at once became piercing and muted, the chatter fading into a dull buzz and an all-encompassing roar. His vision narrowed. His breathing grew shallow. All he saw was her. The tilt of her jaw, the curve of her smile, the way she moved like she'd been cut for this stage.

On Charmer's arm.

"Madonna santa," Tony muttered under his breath, the words escaping before he could catch them.

"You know her?" Silk's brow flicked, but his smirk stayed fixed. He liked blood in the water, even if he didn't know the source.

Tony blinked hard, his throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing. He tugged at his collar, adjusted the rings on his fingers. Tried to compose himself. "No," the lie that felt like truth slipping over his tongue all too easily. "Jus' can't believe Charmer got a tesoro like that on his arm."

"Eh." Silk swirled his drink, gaze flickering back and forth between Tony and the woman. "Figured you'd have noticed her before I did. She's been moving 'round the floor like it's casa sua."

Before Tony could break into his monologue about avoiding blondes once more, a lecture Silk had been given many a time throughout the last five years, a soft voice cut in at his side. "Antonio."

Lucia Moretti, poised, regal, every bit the heiress and Anthony Moretti's little sister. She stood like a flame that refused to flicker, a dark shade whose unyielding stare made it clear she knew. Lei sapeva sempre. She always knew.

"Nonno is waiting," she said, her cool tone as much command as invitation. "Time to join him upstairs."

Tony smoothed his lapel with steady fingers, though his pulse continued to hammer. He forced the smile back upon his lips, all warmth, cheer, and charm. Like he hadn't just seen a ghost draped in black silk. It wouldn't fool either of the sibilings, but it'd keep them at bay for the meeting. "Lead the way, Lucia."

He extended his arm, and she enveloped him. A snake that coiled around the limb with practiced grace, squeezing just enough to remind him of the consequences of slipping. Her lithe, sultry stride led the trio along easily enough. Her hips swaying in a metric rhythm Tony could have set his watch too.

Che cazzo was Angelina doing here? On Charmer's arm? It had been seven years. Sette anni! Not a word, not a sight, not a sound. And now as he caught a glimpse over his shoulder, Vitelli was leading her up the stairs to have dinner with him. With the family.

The biggest names in the family.

A family that thrived on blood, fear, and coercion.

A family of criminals.

Last he'd seen her she- "Fottuta stronza!" The words tore out before he had the sense to catch them. Vinny would have tied him up by the short and curlies for that.

Lucia and Silk both gave him a sidelong look, their ascension never wavering. Tony could only sheepishly meet their looks with a chagrined smile. "Mi scusi. I uh... just put together something that's been bothering me." He offered the half-truth in hopes it would buy him time. Time to think. To understand. To wring his hands around Angelina's neck and get answers.


Lucia leaned close, lips nearly grazing his ear as she paused there on the steps making everyone halt. "Mmmm…" The sly curl of her mouth bloomed into something dangerous. "You'll have to tell me about it tonight after dinner."

Her breathy tone, hot and languid, with an implication unmistakable to those who knew the subtle heiress. It left goosebumps crawling down his neck. A reminder of the nights she had chosen him. Of the line between blood, desire, duty and loyalty that had blurred long ago. Tony's jaw flexed as he swallowed the retort that wanted out. She always knew when to twist the knife.

The stairwell curved upward in hushed carpet, muting the music below into nothing more than a distant hum. Silk strolled on Tony's left, the prince of the Moretti family and all within its reach, bore an expression of an executioner. Stoic and serious. His narrowed features pinched and severe. As though he were contemplating in that very moment whether to stab the man at his side. Lucia continued on Tony's right, her hand looped through his arm, the brush of her perfume close as a confession.

They reached the landing where gilded doors of the conference room parted into Salvatore Moretti's sanctum. The din of the ballroom was gone; here the air was thick with cigar smoke and quiet power. Men stood aside as the trio entered, capos, trusted lieutenants, the old guard in tailored suits. Each and everyone a man of honor who'd earned the right to dine with the Don.

A long mahogany table stretched beneath a chandelier, both brought in just for this occasion. The crystalline light cut sharp against the silverware and wine. At the table's head sat Salvatore Moretti. The Don. His gaze was as heavy as the crucifix that gleamed on his chest. He was an old man now, balding, with jowls on either side of his once sharp jawline. But the fiery glare in his eyes still spoke of a murderous intelligence. A ruthless cunning that had carved his downtrodden family into the annals of legend. Men and women shuffled into their seats around him with the reverence of parishioners before Mass.

Tony pulled out a chair to the Don's left for the man's granddaughter. Lucia offered him one more subtle smile and a brush of her fingers over Tony's arm before she settled in. Anthony took the seat to Sal's right. At the other end of the table sat a lanky man with all the gaunt intimidation of a scarecrow on hallows-eve, complete with wispy strands of wheat colored hair atop his head. The underboss, Angelo "The Ghost."

After seeing Lucia to her seat, Tony took his own, sitting on Lucia's left, only two down from the Don. The table was family. But each seat told a tale of position and posture. Of favor and disfavor. The Don surveyed his family as they claimed seats one by one his smile polite, his gaze suspicious. Only once every chair around the table was filled did the elderly gentlemen speak, breaking the silence that permeated the room. "Anthony. Lead us in prayer if you would."

And so the ritual continued. With the prince begging the Lord Almighty for protection and forgiveness for their sins, adding few snide joking remarks about deviances as he did so.

Were it any other day, Antonio would have joined in the ritual, his head downcast in solemn prayer that he might be saved despite his many sins. He would chuckle at the jokes of who slept with whom, and who slept on the couch. But he couldn't bring himself to muster it this eve. This eve his gaze was locked on the impossible vision draped in black silk and all too familiar gold that sat across from him.

In a moment the prayer would end, the chatter would begin, and he'd have to look away. For her sake. Before anyone could ask questions that he wasn't sure he wanted the answers too. But for now. In that moment. He didn't dare look away.

What if she disappeared once again?

 

[LunaEssence]

The hallway to the private dining room smelled like beeswax, cigars, and old money. Angelina smoothed her dress once, twice, as if she could press the mission flat against her skin. No room for error. She counted heartbeats the way she counted brushstrokes on a canvas: three to set the line, a fourth to commit. The alias fit her mouth, the lies sat light on her tongue. She told the small animal behind her ribs to heel.

Carlo's palm curved at the small of her back as it always did, guiding her in the right direction. "Ready, stellina?"

He looked every inch the velvet-gloved problem solver tonight: gunmetal suit that fit like a second decision, charcoal shirt open two buttons because rules bent for him, not the other way around. Dark hair pushed back with a careless hand, a single gold hoop catching the chandelier whenever he turned his head; five-o'clock shadow trimmed to a suggestion rather than a threat. He smelled faintly of smoke and cedar—whatever he'd finished on the curb before they came up—layered over something clean and expensive. There was street in his posture and boardroom in his gaze, that wolfish handsomeness New York sometimes forgives when the cufflinks sparkle. When he smiled, it was the kind of warmth that made people want to spend money or secrets. Tonight, both.

It was a shame, really. Carlo was a handsome man, a gentleman, sometimes a douchebag, but still a gentleman. And perhaps in another life, what he and Marianna had could manifest something real, with the real her. Unless one particular man didn't allow that to happen, of course. Fate had an interesting way of intervening.

Her own smile came soft and bright. "Always, amore. Let's go be charming."

"You keep charmin' people like this and you just might steal my name, baby."

"Better be careful, then," Angelina jested.

The doors opened onto Salvatore Moretti's sanctum. A long mahogany table gleamed under a chandelier imported for the occasion, silverware aligned like ranks on parade. Waiters drifted in the hush with practiced invisibility, laying down bread baskets, pouring Barolo, adjusting a chair by the width of a breath. Low talk rose and folded, the susurrus of powerful men taking their places. Somewhere, a cork sighed; crystal chimed; a laugh cut quick and vanished.

She mapped the room the way a painter studies light. There he was. The man of the hour. Don Salvatore Moretti at the head, gaze weighty as a gavel, crucifix catching the chandelier's stars. It was Angelina's first time seeing the man in person. He was the eldest, but it didn't make him any less lethal. Angelo "The Ghost" sat and dominated the far end—gaunt, unblinking, a scarecrow with a ledger. Marco "The Bookie" already tallying favors behind his eyes maybe; Frankie "No Nose" laughing down the table with that fox-bright grin; Dominic "Ice" sitting casually at his seat; Rocco "Rock" heavy at the shoulder. They all sat nearest to Angelo with their own companions. Charmer sat beside an empty chair to which Angelina presumed would probably belong to Anthony or Tony. She would sit beside him, his cufflinks winking, voice warm as velvet and just as easy to ruin. The remaining enforcers dominated the middle of the table, furthest away from their superiors.

For one suspended beat, the sight of them all, save for Tony and Anthony, at a single table felt unreal, like a composite she'd sketched for practice and somehow willed into flesh: the Don at the head, the prince soon to be to his right, the consigliere's empty gravity like a black star, the capos arranged in their constellations. Every objective she'd memorized had a pulse now. The air itself seemed to weigh more. Her palms warmed; her mouth went dry in that small, traitorous way that says this matters. It hit her just how deep she'd waded—past the sandbar, toes no longer finding the bottom. Yet there was a terrible clarity to it, too. If the city wanted a reckoning, this was the room where the bill would be itemized. No room for failure, Marianna. Smile and swim.

Then the door at the opposite end shifted its pitch, the air in the room leveling into a strange calm, and her mind—so precise, so orderly—went white at the edges. Antonio entered with Lucia on his arm and Silk at his flank. The chandelier burnished the black of his suit to midnight, struck the pin at his tie into a star, carved his mouth into that precise line she used to trace with a fingertip. He carried silence like a right. Lucia's hand rested in the crook of his elbow, possessive as jewelry. Rumor, meet proof.

Angelina kept the alias smiling behind her teeth and felt the girl from Bensonhurst flare and falter. Breathe. Shoulders down. The city doesn't get to see you shake. For a moment, the table blurred. The silver, the smoke, the old men in beautiful suits were replaced by a private reel of hallway kisses and rooftop promises, laughter in a borrowed car on Ocean Parkway, the weight of his hand at the base of her skull, around her hips, around her neck. She placed each image back on its shelf as if it were china that could chip.

But, oh, era ancora così bello. Affascinante e un vero amante e un bugiardo e un bruto e un...

Carlo pulled her chair, pulling her out of her thoughts simultaneously. Hierarchy set the pattern. As his companion, she sat just off his left, almost midway down the table on the side that didn't speak unless invited. It suited her—better angles to see, better angles to be seen. Silk sat next to Charmer, leaving Tony and Lucia to sit across from them. Linen brushed Angelina's knees. A waiter ghosted in and poured her water without touching the tablecloth. She thanked him in a whisper and counted the exits, the mirrors, the shadows where a bodyguard could stand and not cast one.

The Don requested that Silk lead the prayer, and the room bowed its heads. The heir's voice rolled out smooth as the Barolo, a prayer salted with jokes about who was misbehaving. Chairs creaked. Forks stilled. She lowered her gaze, hands folded where Carlo could see them, keeping herself demure for anyone watching, steady for anyone measuring. When the final amen murmured through the crystal, she let the first heartbeat of conversation rise and then angled her shoulders with respectful poise.

"Grazie, Don Moretti, per avermi accolta questa sera," she said, Italian softened as it didn't quite carry the same cadence as a native born, but clear enough to carry. "È un vero onore. Farò la mia parte con rispetto—sempre." She didn't overplay it. There was no toast, no spotlight, just the quiet offering of a guest who knew the value of gratitude and respect. A waiter shifted; glassware chimed; the crucifix at his chest caught a shard of light. She accepted the smallest incline of acknowledgment like a blessing and slipped back into the current as if she'd never stepped out of it.

Bread arrived and wine moved. Conversations unfurled, but it was nothing too interesting. They were about construction delays, a judge's tricky schedule, a shipping contract that needed a nudge. She supposed she couldn't expect more. Angelina was sure the heavier topics were left for the boys. Moving their business to the cigar room and leaving their ladies behind to gossip and look pretty while they waited. She let the room learn her like a song—first the hook, then the bridge. When she caught Marco counting heads toward her end, she gave him her profile with the good light.

"Charmer," Marco said, amusement sitting comfortably in his voice, "you didn't tell us you was auditionin' for Vogue. Who's the signorina?"

Carlo's smile played easy. "My better half tonight." He turned his palm up between them, offering the stage.

She set her manicured fingertips in Carlo's hand and glanced down the table with a warmth that landed without cloy, some of her voluminous golden locks spilling over her shoulder. "Marianna Marino," she introduced herself. "Friends call me Mari. I keep this one's paperwork pretty and his nerves prettier. He forgets to eat unless I threaten him." Her thumb idly caressed his hand, playing a part of the lady who needed his man's assurance and support when she was looked at as the new face. The new girl. The new girl who slipped into the most powerful family in the city.

Frankie barked a laugh through his nose. "Threats, huh? I knew he was into that."

"Frankie," Carlo chided, delighted, but giving him a faux warning look.

Rocco lifted his glass in her direction, expression unreadable but not unkind. "Where you from, bella?"

"Queens by lease," she answered, rolling a shoulder with modest pride, "Brooklyn by heart. Sundays we do gravy the right way and count ziti like rosary beads." A ripple of approval moved. Even The Ghost looked up long enough to register the cadence. Anthony smirked over his wine; Lucia studied her with the lazy interest of a cat that'd found a new warm spot. Angelina, backed by a whole team, wasn't an idiota and was ready. She expected one of them to check her out, if not more. A quick background check to make sure she was legit. And they would find that everything she is saying is true. Marianna Marino existed and had an extensive history of living life in the Big Apple. In fact, she was sure Charmer had done his due diligence as well.

"Marianna," Marco mused as if testing her name right off the tongue. He was already slotting her into an index card in his mind. "You in the business, cara, or you jus' the brains keepin' our Charmer from trippin' on his shoelaces?"

"Let's say I hate messy paper and love a clean signature," she said, tilting her glass toward the Don without presuming a toast. "And I like men who keep their promises. Makes my day easy, makes your nights easier. Capisce?"

"Capisce," Marco grinned, satisfied with the answer, it seemed.

Across the linen, the Consigliere's gaze returned to her and held—not a challenge, not yet, but a recognition that struck bone. Lucia leaned to say something near his ear; jasmine and intent drifted across the table, and Angelina filed the scent beside the proof. The knife of it found the old scar and pressed. Fine. Let it press. You still bleed red and you still don't fail.

She lifted her wine and let her mouth curve, all ease. "To a smooth night," she said softly to those near enough to hear, letting the lilt sweeten the edges. "No headaches. Plenty a' laughs."

"Salute," Carlo replied, pleased. The others near them echoed it, a small clatter of crystal like distant bells.

Inside, she stacked her thoughts with deliberate care: the seating chart, the routes the waiters took, Lucia's hand on the Consigliere's sleeve, the way the Don's gaze skipped or lingered. She buried the reel trying to play behind her eyes and let the mission sit on her tongue like a coin she would never spend. When she looked back across the table, she didn't flinch. However, whenever her gaze crossed over to Tony, it never lingered. She gave him the same amount of attention as she did everyone else, not risking a single second of someone noticing something strange about her. Six months she was in this, and she couldn't allow Tony to be the one to ruin it all.

She did wonder, though...will he rat on her? Will he confront her now or later? Or...will he kill her? Kill her out of resentment? Kill her because he knows she shouldn't be here? Kill her because she knew too much, probably? It was difficult to get a read on the man of her past, who shouldn't spare a single second more looking his way. Instead, she put on a dazzling smile, entertained nearby conversations, and laughed just enough to sound invested in whatever dull conversation was currently taking place. Angelina could feel him, however. It was hard not to, but she was hyperaware of him, too.

I see you. I see all of you. And I am not here to fail.