Chapter 8 - The Judas Feast
The penthouse ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a cathedral of gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and velvet drapery overlooking the misty expanse of Lake Shore Drive.
It was seven-thirty in the evening.
The conclave had gathered. Around a massive, circular mahogany table sat the heads of the Five Families of Chicago: the Lucchese crew from the West Side, the Scalise syndicate from the South Suburbs, the Greek shipping bosses from the docks, and the Albanian distribution kings.
At the head of the table sat Dominic Moretti.
He looked every inch the grieving statesman. He wore a midnight-blue three-piece Brioni suit, his diamond cufflinks catching the light of the chandeliers. A silver urn—supposedly containing the ashes of his beloved nephew, Don Vincent Moretti—rested on a black velvet pedestal just behind his chair.
"A tragic loss," Dominic was saying, his voice rich with feigned sorrow, dabbing at the corner of his dry eye with a silk handkerchief. "A sudden aneurism. The Swiss doctors warned us fifteen years ago that the shrapnel near his temporal lobe was a ticking clock. My nephew fought bravely, but the silence finally took him."
Don Scalise, a corpulent man with heavy jowls and rings on every finger, leaned forward, chewing on an unlit cigar. "And the girl? The Vance girl he married last week? Word on the street is she disappeared."
Dominic sighed, shaking his head with theatrical regret. "A common thief. Panicked when she found the body. Stole two hundred thousand from the safe and ran. My boys are hunting her down as we speak. She will be dealt with."
"Then the succession is clear," the Lucchese boss muttered, tapping his signet ring against the mahogany. "The Commission recognizes the Moretti line through Dominic. Chicago needs stability, especially with the federal grand jury convening next month. We take the vote."
Dominic’s eyes glittered with predatory triumph.
Fifteen years of planning. Fifteen years of whispering into the ear of a man who couldn't hear him, slowly siphoning the loyalty of the capos, planting the seeds of his own coronation.
"The vote of the Commission," the old secretary began, opening the black leather ledger. "On the elevation of Dominic Moretti to the seat of Capo di tutti Capi of Chicago—"
*"The seat is not vacant."*
The voice echoed through the double oak doors at the back of the ballroom.
It wasn't a shout. It didn't need to be. The acoustics of the ballroom caught the deep, resonant baritone and bounced it off the gilded plaster until it sounded like thunder rolling down a mountainside.
Every head at the table snapped toward the entrance.
The two armed guards stationed at the heavy double doors were already falling sideways, their bodies collapsing limp against the mahogany paneling.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the bright amber light of the foyer, was Vincent Moretti.
He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, tailored so sharp it looked like armor. His jaw was cleanly shaved, the silver at his temples gleaming under the crystal lights. Beside him, dressed in an emerald-green silk backless gown that flowed like liquid fire down to the floor, her hair swept up to expose the diamond earrings Vincent had given her an hour earlier, stood Elena Moretti.
She wasn't looking at the floor. She wasn't trembling. Her chin was held high, her hand resting gracefully on the crook of Vincent’s arm, her dark eyes sweeping across the most dangerous men in the Midwest with the calm indifference of an empress inspecting cattle.
Dominic rose from his chair so fast his wine glass tipped over, splashing dark Chianti across the white linen cloth like fresh arterial spray.
His face turned the color of ash. His lips parted, trembling, his teeth clicking together as if his jaw had forgotten how to work.
"V... Vincent?" Dominic choked out, his hand instinctively flying to his own breast pocket. "You're... you're dead. The doctor confirmed—"
"The doctor took five million of your money and boarded a flight to Buenos Aires three hours ago, Uncle," Vincent said.
He walked down the center aisle of the ballroom.
Every step was measured, calm, rhythmic. He didn't have an interpreter. He didn't look at Dominic’s lips. His slate-gray eyes were locked directly onto his uncle’s shaking pupils.
"And my hearing..." Vincent continued, his voice ringing through the absolute, paralyzed silence of the room, "...is better than it was the day you put three sticks of dynamite under my Cadillac."
A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed around the table.
Don Scalise’s cigar dropped from his mouth onto the table. The Lucchese boss slowly pushed his chair back, his hands held flat on the table, signaling total neutrality.
"You're lying!" Dominic screamed, his aristocratic facade shattering into frantic, feral madness. "He’s bluffing! He's a deaf cripple who had his mind scrambled by an infection! Guards! Kill him!"
Not a single guard moved.
The thirty men stationed around the perimeter of the ballroom were Moretti soldiers. Men who had sworn their oaths to Vincent’s father, men who had followed Vincent through the blood-soaked street wars of the early 2000s. They looked at Vincent standing tall, unbowed, speaking with the voice of a king who had returned from the dead, and then they looked at Dominic, sweating and shaking behind an overturned wine glass.
Vincent reached the head of the table. He stopped two paces from Dominic.
Elena stepped slightly to the side, her posture perfect, her fingers resting lightly on the clutch purse that concealed a customized 9mm semi-automatic.
"Fifteen years, Dominic," Vincent whispered, the softness of his voice more terrifying than any roar. "Fifteen years you whispered lies into my room. You told me the Commission wanted war when they wanted peace. You told me my capos were stealing when you were the one skimming the ports."
Vincent reached into his coat pocket.
He didn't pull a gun.
He pulled out a small, clear glass jar filled with blue chemical fluid.
Suspended inside the liquid were the crushed, carbon-fiber segments of the bio-synthetic centipede, its micro-circuitry gleaming dully beneath the chandelier light.
Vincent set the jar on the table right beside Dominic's overturned wine glass.
"Dr. Mercer left the transmission logs on his hard drive," Vincent said, looking around the table at the other four bosses. "Every conversation Dominic had with federal prosecutors. Every frequency code. Every dollar he took from DARPA to turn Chicago’s leadership into a controlled puppet state."
The Lucchese boss leaned over, inspected the jar, and his face turned to granite. "Is this true, Dominic?"
"It's a forgery!" Dominic shrieked, backing away toward the velvet pedestal where the urn rested. "He’s mad! The girl poisoned him! She’s an operative! Look at her! A maid from the South Side! He married a gutter rat!"
Vincent moved.
It was too fast for human eyes to track. One second he was standing motionless; the next, his left hand had clamped around Dominic’s throat like a hydraulic vise, lifting the sixty-year-old man completely off his feet and slamming him backward against the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the city.
The thick glass cracked with a web of fine, spider-web fractures behind Dominic’s head.
Dominic kicked and clawed at Vincent’s arm, his face turning purple, his eyes bulging as his airway was crushed.
"Never speak her name with your dirty mouth," Vincent whispered, his face inches from his uncle’s. "She saved my life while you were counting the silver."
Dominic, choking, his hands trembling, reached desperately into his vest pocket and pulled out a small, silver remote control with a single black button.
The failsafe.
The trigger that was supposed to send a fifty-thousand-volt short-circuit pulse through the micro-filaments in Vincent’s brain, liquifying his temporal lobe instantly.
Dominic slammed his thumb down on the button.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nothing happened.
Vincent stared at him, a cold, mocking smile touching the corners of his lips.
He reached up with his free hand, tapped the small, flesh-toned earpiece resting in his right ear, and leaned into Dominic’s ear.
"The wires are gone, Dominic," Vincent whispered. "There is nothing inside my head anymore... except the sound of your breathing."
Vincent let go.
Dominic collapsed onto the carpet, gasping, sobbing, clutching his bruised throat.
Vincent didn't look down at him. He turned to the four bosses sitting at the table, who were watching the display with cold, respectful awe.
"The Moretti family is under new management," Vincent announced, his voice carrying the finality of an iron door slamming shut. "The treaties stand. The percentages remain unchanged. But if any man in this room ever attempts to use science or poison to steal what was built with iron... I will not use a gun. I will let him experience fifteen years of silence at the bottom of the lake."
Don Scalise slowly rose from his seat.
He raised his wine glass toward Vincent, then inclined his head toward Elena.
"To Don Moretti," Scalise said, his voice solemn. "And to the Donna."
May you like
One by one, the other bosses stood, raising their glasses, bowing their heads to the man who had conquered the dark.
***
