Chapter 7 - The Gathering of Wolves
Friday night arrived with a suffocating, heavy humidity that signaled an incoming summer storm. The sky over the North Shore turned the color of bruised steel, and distant rumbles of thunder shook the French windows of the Rosetti estate.
Down in the main dining hall, the atmosphere was even heavier.
Long, dark mahogany tables—usually reserved for family dinners or quiet evenings—were surrounded by twelve men. They were the regional capos and elders of the Rosetti syndicate: hardened veterans of Chicago’s underworld, wearing expensive suits, smoking Cuban cigars, and eyeing one another with mutual suspicion.
At the head of the table sat Dominic. He didn't speak. He simply sat with his hands clasped before him, his face carved from obsidian.
I stood quietly in the shadows near the double doors, my hand resting near a concealed panic button connected to the estate’s security grid. Upstairs, Lily was sleeping soundly, guarded by Marcus and a rotated squad of four elite operators.
“Dominic,” spoke up Salvatore Moretti—not the family head, but a gruff, aging capo named Sal who had served under Dominic’s father. “You called an emergency council at midnight. Whispers are flying through the city that you’ve locked up your own chief legal counsel. Care to explain what the hell is going on?”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the table. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, blurring the harsh lighting of the chandelier.
Dominic slowly raised his head. His dark eyes swept across the room, silencing every murmur instantly.
“You all know why my daughter was hospitalized two weeks ago,” Dominic said, his voice cutting through the room like a razor. “You were told it was an accident. A hit-and-run by rival thugs.”
He paused, letting the silence settle over the room like a blanket of lead.
“It was not an accident,” Dominic continued. “Someone inside this room—someone sitting at this very table, or advising it—sold her location to the Moretti family. They traded my daughter’s blood for a seat at a table that doesn't exist.”
An uproar exploded around the table. Capos slammed their fists down, shouting denials and curses at one another, each accusing his neighbor of betrayal.
“Order!” Dominic roared, slamming his palm against the table with a force that made the crystal glasses rattle.
He gestured to the double doors. “Bring him in.”
Marcus and two guards pushed open the doors, roughly shoving Vincent Rossi into the center of the room. Vincent’s expensive suit was rumpled, his tie was gone, and dark bruises marred his jawline. But despite his condition, a twisted, reckless smile remained plastered on his face.
“Look at this,” Vincent laughed bitterly, turning to face the assembled capos. “The great Dominic Rosetti, holding a kangaroo court to preserve his crown! He calls me a traitor, but he won't tell you the truth—that his weak leadership is dragging us all to the gallows!”
“You sold your own family to our worst enemy,” Sal snarled, standing up and reaching for his jacket holster. “You deserve a bullet in the brain right here and now!”
“Wait, Sal!” Vincent shouted, holding up his hands. “Before you play the loyal soldier, ask yourself: why did Dominic bring an unknown civilian into his inner circle? Why is some punk named Leo Vance living under his roof? Because Dominic is losing his mind! He’s letting outsiders into syndicate business!”
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Every head at the table turned. Twelve pairs of cold, suspicious eyes locked directly onto me where I stood in the shadows.
For a fraction of a second, the room tilted. I felt the collective weight of the Chicago underworld pressing down on my shoulders, realizing that Vincent was trying to drag me down with him in his dying breath.
