Chapter 347: The Mole Revealed!

All eyes turned to Kyle the moment Marcello’s words faded into the heavy silence. The weight of those gazes was almost physical, pressing down on him from every angle like atmospheric pressure at the bottom of the ocean. Kyle could feel each of them studying him—assessing, measuring, calculating what threat or value he represented.

Viktor’s stare was the most visceral, those metal teeth visible as his lips pulled back in something between a grin and a snarl. The Russian’s massive hands rested on the table, fingers thick as sausages, scarred and tattooed. Those were hands that had broken bones, crushed windpipes, torn flesh from living bodies. And they were currently drumming a slow, methodical rhythm on the polished wood, a predator’s anticipation.

Lucius Moretti watched with the detached interest of a surgeon examining a specimen, his sharp Italian features betraying nothing. The fedora sat before him like a crown, and occasionally his fingers would brush its brim—a tell, perhaps, or just a habit.

Isabeau’s gaze was the most dangerous because it revealed absolutely nothing. She looked at Kyle like he was a stranger she’d never seen before, someone of mild curiosity at best. No recognition, no acknowledgment of what she did a few hours go.

Professional to the core. But Kyle caught the tiniest flicker at the corner of her mouth—approval, maybe, or anticipation of the show about to begin. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

O’Rourke’s scarred face was a roadmap of violence survived, and his pale eyes held the thousand-yard stare of someone who’d seen too much death to be impressed by one more body. He sipped his whiskey, waiting.

And then there was Marcello.

The Don sat perfectly still, his posture relaxed but his attention laser-focused. He studied Kyle with the intensity of a chess master evaluating an opponent’s opening move. Those dark eyes missed nothing—not the slight tension in Kyle’s shoulders, not the way his wounded arm held differently than the other, not the careful neutrality of his expression.

Kyle couldn’t believe the pressure bearing down on him. This wasn’t like standing in front of a crowd or even facing down Cleopatra’s mind games. This was walking into a den of apex predators, each one capable of ordering his death with a word, and being expected to perform. To lie convincingly. To condemn a man to execution based on fabricated evidence. And to do it in front of people who’d built empires on reading deception and punishing it with extreme prejudice.

Without his skill—without the ability to absorb and mimic personalities perfectly—Kyle would have pissed himself. Literally. The fear coiling in his gut was primal, screaming at him to run, to confess, to beg for mercy. His hands wanted to shake. His voice wanted to crack. His eyes wanted to dart around looking for exits.

But Michael Corleone didn’t do any of those things.

Kyle channeled that personality like slipping on a perfectly tailored suit. The nervousness didn’t disappear—couldn’t disappear, because he wasn’t actually Michael Corleone—but it got buried under layers of practiced calm. His breathing evened out. His hands remained still on the table, fingers loosely interlaced. His expression settled into something neutral and slightly distant, as if he were thinking several moves ahead while appearing to be barely engaged.

Most importantly, his eyes steadied. They met Marcello’s without flinching, without challenge, just... present. Acknowledging the power in the room without submitting to it.

Marcello noticed. Of course he noticed.

The Don’s head tilted fractionally, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. His eyes narrowed just slightly, studying Kyle with renewed interest. Something had changed in the young man sitting before him. The scared boy who’d been dragged into this world kicking and screaming—the one Marcello had undoubtedly been briefed about—had been replaced by someone else. Someone harder. Calmer. More dangerous, potentially.

Kyle could see the wheels turning behind Marcello’s eyes. The Don was a master at reading people—you didn’t survive decades in this business without that skill—and he was picking up on the subtle changes. The shift in posture from nervous victim to controlled participant. The transformation in eye contact from avoidance to measured engagement. Even the way Kyle’s breathing had changed, from shallow and rapid to deep and steady.

It was almost imperceptible, but Marcello was too good not to catch it.

"Mr. Kyle," Marcello said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, breaking the silence that had stretched too long. "Thank you for joining us. I understand you’ve had a... difficult few days."

The understatement would have been funny if Kyle’s life didn’t depend on this conversation. Difficult didn’t begin to cover being shot, drugged, and coerced into framing a psychopath for treason.

"I appreciate the hospitality," Kyle replied, his voice steady, carrying just the right amount of reserved courtesy. Not obsequious, not challenging. Professional. Michael Corleone’s voice, really, but filtered through Kyle’s own vocal cords.

"Though I admit the circumstances could have been better."

A ghost of a smile crossed Marcello’s face.

"Indeed. Isabeau informed me you have information regarding a matter of... internal security. A serious matter."

Kyle noticed how Marcello’s eyes didn’t leave his face, cataloging every micro-expression. The Don was testing him already, watching for tells, for cracks in the facade. This was the moment—commit to the lie or back out and probably die.

"I do," Kyle said simply. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t rush to fill the silence. That was Corleone’s style—economical with words, letting others fill the void. It also bought him precious seconds to steady his racing heart.

Viktor shifted in his seat, the chair creaking under his massive bulk.

"What the fuck is this?" he growled in his thick Russian accent, metal teeth glinting. "We sit here listening to some rich American boy? What does he know of our business?"

"Viktor," Marcello said quietly, not even looking at the Russian enforcer. Just his name, spoken with gentle warning. The massive man fell silent, but his eyes burned with resentment.

Marcello returned his full attention to Kyle. "Please. Tell us what you know."

Kyle took a breath, channeling every ounce of Corleone’s cold calculation. This was it. The performance of his life.

"I know who the mole is," he said, his voice carrying across the room with quiet certainty. "The one who’s been feeding information to outside interests. The one who’s been undermining this alliance from within."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Isabeau’s expression remained perfectly neutral, but Kyle caught the tiniest flash in her eyes—pride, maybe, or satisfaction that he was playing his role so well.

Marcello leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. Those dark eyes bored into Kyle, searching for deception.

"And how did you come by this information?"

"Through my business dealings," Kyle said smoothly. "I was approached. Offered a partnership. The person doing the offering... let certain details slip. Details they shouldn’t have known unless they had access to family discussions. Internal strategies."

It was vague enough to be plausible, specific enough to sound credible. Kyle held Marcello’s gaze, projecting confidence he didn’t feel.

"Who approached you?" Lucius Moretti asked, his voice sharp.

Kyle turned his head slowly, meeting the Italian’s eyes. "I’ll get to that. But first, you need to understand the scope. This isn’t just one isolated leak. This is systematic betrayal over months, maybe longer. Someone in this room has been playing both sides."

The accusation hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Viktor slammed his hand on the table, the sound like a gunshot. "You accuse someone here? You have balls, American, but not much brain if you think—"

"Viktor," Marcello said again, firmer this time. The Russian subsided, but barely.

Marcello’s eyes never left Kyle. The Don was reading him like a book, and Kyle knew that one wrong tell, one hesitation, would expose the entire lie. But Corleone’s personality held firm, a shield against the scrutiny.

"Name them," Marcello said softly. "Tell me who you believe is the traitor."

Kyle’s heart hammered, but his face remained calm. He let the silence build for just a moment—dramatic timing, Corleone would have appreciated—before he spoke.

"Viktor Sokolov."