Chapter 6 - The Council at Dawn
The abandoned meatpacking warehouse on the outskirts of the Chicago stockyards was cavernous, freezing, and reeked of old rust and damp concrete.
Around a massive steel table beneath a flickering halogen lamp sat the six remaining capos of the Romano syndicate. At the head of the table sat Don Pietro—an aging, arrogant bastard who had helped raise me after my father died, and who now believed he could pull the strings of the puppet master.
“Dante is late,” Pietro muttered, chewing on an unlit cigar. “Typical. Success in New York went to his head. He thinks he’s untouchable.”
“He’s not untouchable,” a voice echoed from the shadows near the loading dock.
The heavy steel sliding doors groaned open.
Morning light spilled into the warehouse, cutting through the dusty air. I walked down the center aisle, my boots echoing sharply against the concrete floor. Flanking me on either side were twelve elite enforcers carrying submachine guns, followed closely by Victor.
And behind us, standing by the command truck outside, were Salvatore Rossi’s men—sealing every exit.
Pietro slammed his palm onto the steel table. “What is the meaning of this?! You bring an army to an internal council meeting? Where is Marcus? He was supposed to secure the perimeter!”
“Marcus is currently indisposed,” I said smoothly, pulling out the chair opposite Pietro and sitting down. I placed a thick manila folder squarely in the center of the table. “In fact, Marcus spent the last three hours of his life giving me a very detailed list of every bank account, every corrupt judge, and every traitorous capo involved in the plot to overthrow my administration.”
Pietro’s face flushed a dark, mottled purple. He looked around the table at the other capos, whose expressions had suddenly turned pale with terror.
“It’s a bluff!” Pietro roared, standing up. “He has no proof! Kill him—!”
“Sit down, Pietro,” I commanded. My voice didn't rise above a conversational tone, but the sheer weight of it made him freeze.
I opened the manila folder.
“Account numbers in Zurich. Audio recordings of you meeting with New York syndicates last Tuesday. And receipts for the explosives Marcus used to breach my gate last night,” I listed off, turning the pages slowly. “You wanted a vote, Pietro? Let’s take a vote. Who here believes the Romano syndicate should be run by greedy cowards who sell out their own blood for a cut of the docks?”
Silence hung heavy in the warehouse. Not a single capo moved. Not a single hand was raised.
Pietro’s breath hitched. He reached frantically for the revolver tucked inside his shoulder holster, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.
Before his hand even cleared leather, Victor’s MP5 was raised.
Clack.
“Don't do it, old man,” Victor warned quietly.
May you like
Pietro froze, his hand hovering over his gun. Slowly, agonizingly, he withdrew his hand and slumped back down into his chair, defeated by his own greed.
“The council is adjourned,” I said, standing up and closing the folder. “Effective immediately, all assets belonging to the conspirators are seized by the house. Pietro, you and your loyalists will spend the rest of your natural lives managing the sanitation plants in the remote northern districts. If I see your face in Chicago again, I won't use a gun. I’ll let Zoe’s mother handle you.”
