Chapter 6 - The Council of Five BoroughsBy midnight, the grand dining hall had been cleared of civilian guests and the estate had entered a state of complete, silent mobilization.
The forty syndicate commanders, deep-water dockmasters, and union leaders who had attended the banquet were reconvened around the thirty-foot mahogany conference table beneath the Austrian crystal chandeliers.
Every man sat in rigid, breathless silence, their hands resting flat against the white damask tablecloth.
At the head of the raised marble dais sat Don Luca Moretti.
He had removed his suit jacket, rolling his white dress shirtsleeves up over his corded, ink-stained forearms, his presence commanding such terrifying, undisputed gravity that no man dared to draw a full breath.
And sitting in the high-backed mahogany armchair directly to his right—the place setting that had been laid with crystal and gold for the future Donna of Chicago—was me.
I had removed my black uniform apron. I wore a tailored gown of deep navy silk that Mrs. Carter had brought down from the private guest suites, my dark hair falling over my shoulders in soft waves, my hands resting comfortably on the polished wood.
Beside my chair sat eight-year-old Sophie, happily eating warm strawberry shortbread cookies that Teresa had baked with a beaming smile, while the old matriarch sat in her wheelchair at the end of the table, holding a cup of steaming espresso with her own steady hands.
Don Carmine Falcone, the legendary eighty-year-old capo of the South Side docks, slowly pushed back his heavy armchair.
The ancient mobster stood tall, leaning both hands on his carved ash walking stick, looking at me with undisguised, ancient reverence.
“Last night, an alliance built on treason, poisoning, and the attempted kidnapping of an innocent child was dismantled in this house,” Falcone rasped, his voice echoing across the vaulted ceiling. “The house of Bellini is officially extinct. Their container terminals, their shipping lines, and their transport corridors have been absorbed directly into the Moretti Family Trust.”
He lifted his crystal glass of vintage Barolo high into the air.
“To Donna Hannah! The woman who broke the silence and saved the bloodline! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Moretti!”
One by one, the remaining thirty-nine syndicate commanders stood from their chairs, raising their glasses in a synchronized, thunderous chorus that shook the crystal chandeliers overhead:
“To Donna Hannah! Long live the house of Moretti!”
Luca turned his dark, soulful gray eyes toward me, his lips curving into that rare, breathtaking smile of a sovereign whose wars were won and whose soul was finally whole.
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He raised his glass beside mine, clinking the crystal together with a clear, ringing chime that echoed into the night.
“Welcome to your family, Hannah.”
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