Chapter 6 - The Council of Wolves
Three days after the purge in Manhattan, the tension across the eastern seaboard had reached a boiling point.
The Moretti empire was a sprawling, multifaceted beast, and when the head suffered a violent shudder, the tremors shook every corner of the criminal underworld from Boston to Miami. Word had already leaked out that Vincent—the legendary capo who had held the family together for three decades—had vanished from his usual haunts. Whispers of a bloody coup inside the Moretti Tower were running wild through every social club, restaurant, and dockside warehouse from Brooklyn to the Meadowlands.
And the commission in Chicago—the supreme governing body of the syndicate—was demanding answers.
Inside the reinforced subterranean conference room of the Long Island safehouse, the air was thick with the scent of high-end Cuban cigars and burning tension. A massive mahogany table dominated the center of the room, flanked by six of my most loyal regional commanders: men who controlled our freight yards, financial syndicates, and street distribution networks.
At the head of the table, I sat in silence, my dark suit pressed to perfection, my hands resting calmly on the polished wood.
To my right sat Mateo, reviewing a dossier of intercepted encrypted communications coming out of O'Hare Airport in Chicago.
“They’re moving faster than we anticipated, Boss,” Mateo said, sliding a printed transcript across the table toward me. “Don Salvatore of the Chicago Outfit has called an emergency tribunal. He’s claiming that your recent actions—detaining Vincent and neutralizing Daniel without the commission's prior approval—constitute a direct violation of the syndicate charter.”
A murmur of restless anxiety rippled through the seated commanders. One of them, a heavy-set veteran named Bruno who controlled our Queens distribution hubs, leaned forward, shaking his head.
“Salvatore is looking for an excuse, Luca,” Bruno said, his voice gravelly and concerned. “With Vincent gone, the old guard in the Midwest smells blood in the water. They think you’re distracted. They know about the safehouse, they know you pulled Elena Bennett and her kid out of Manhattan, and they’re spinning it as weakness—saying a boss who gets soft over a secretary’s brat isn't fit to hold the chair.”
Every eye in the room turned toward me. They were waiting to see if the rumors were true. They were waiting to see if the cold, ruthless Moretti bloodline had been diluted by compassion.
I picked up the transcript, glanced over Don Salvatore’s formal ultimatum demanding my presence in Chicago within forty-eight hours to face a disciplinary tribunal, and slowly laid the paper back down.
A faint, humorless smile touched my lips.
“They think I’m distracted,” I said softly, my voice cutting through the murmurs of the room like a razor blade. “They think because I pulled a mother and child out of the line of fire, my trigger finger has gotten slow.”
I stood up slowly, leaning forward over the table, letting my gaze sweep across every single face in the room.
“Vincent and Daniel didn't just break syndicate rules; they weaponized their positions to terrorize civilians inside my own company, stealing funds, trafficking contraband through our Red Hook docks without authorization, and murdering an innocent accountant who asked too many questions. They were traitors. And in the Moretti family, treason carries only one penalty.”
I slammed my palm flat against the mahogany table. The sharp crack echoed like a gunshot through the subterranean vault.
“Salvatore thinks he can summon me to Chicago like a schoolboy called before the headmaster? Let him try. But make no mistake: I am not going to Chicago to defend my actions. I am going there to remind the commission exactly whose name is on the ledger.”
Before anyone could reply, the heavy steel security door at the end of the hall swung open.
Footsteps patted lightly against the concrete floor.
All six regional commanders—hardened men who had survived decades of gang wars, FBI investigations, and turf battles—froze instantly, their heads snapping toward the doorway in absolute bewilderment.
A small figure in a bright yellow dress and scuffed pink sneakers trotted into the conference room, clutching a half-eaten strawberry in one hand and my heavy Montblanc pen tucked securely behind her ear like a journalist's pencil.
Boss Mia stopped right beside my chair, looked up at the circle of terrifying, heavily armed syndicate bosses staring at her in stunned silence, and planted her small hands firmly on her hips.
“You’re being too loud,” Mia announced, glaring sternly at Bruno. “The boss is trying to talk.”
A dead, stunned silence descended upon the war room.
Bruno’s jaw dropped open. He looked from the three-year-old girl up to me, blinking as if he were hallucinating.
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I looked down at Mia, my severe expression completely dissolving into a warm, genuine smile. I reached out, lifted her effortlessly off the cold concrete, and swung her up to sit comfortably on my knee right at the head of the table.
“You’re right, Boss Mia,” I said, looking back at my stunned commanders with absolute calm. “Meeting adjourned. Pack your bags for Chicago. We have a commission meeting to attend.”
