Chapter 8 - The Council of River Barons
The following morning at ten o'clock, the emergency meeting of the Midwest Syndicate Commission was convened in the grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel in downtown Chicago.
All forty commanders who had attended the fateful dinner were present, seated around an expansive u-shaped mahogany conference table beneath soaring crystal chandeliers.
The atmosphere was completely transformed.
There were no whispered conspiracies. No arrogant smirks.
Every single man in the room sat upright, hands flat on the white linen, waiting for the arrival of the sovereign.
The heavy double doors swung open.
Luca Moretti walked into the room, his presence commanding absolute, undisputed authority.
Walking beside him, his silver-topped cane clicking rhythmically against the parquet floor, was Don Carmine Falcone.
And walking at Luca’s right side, dressed in an elegant gown of dark navy silk that accentuated her slender grace, her dark hair pinned with diamond combs, was me.
Luca didn't take his seat immediately.
He walked to the head of the table, stopped before the assembled shipping barons, and pulled out the heavy mahogany armchair directly to his right—the place setting that had been reserved for the future Donna of Chicago.
He looked down at me with profound, open respect.
“Please sit, Emma.”
I took my seat gracefully, smoothing the navy silk over my lap, feeling the eyes of forty powerful men watching me not as a former housemaid, but as the woman who had brought two corrupt dynasties to their knees in a single night.
Falcone took his seat to Luca’s left, setting his cane against the table with a firm, resounding clack.
Luca sat at the head of the table. He rested his forearms on the polished mahogany wood, his dark gray eyes sweeping across the forty commanders.
“Gentlemen,” Luca began, his deep baritone cutting through the silence of the room. “Last night, an alliance built on murder, greed, and the exploitation of the vulnerable was terminated in my home.”
He looked at the commanders from Cicero, Rockford, and Milwaukee.
“The Bellini and Vale cartels have been completely liquidated by federal court decree. Their deep-water berths, their container vessels, and their transport corridors have been absorbed directly into the Moretti-Sullivan Maritime Trust.”
He paused, letting the magnitude of the announcement settle over the assembly.
“From this day forward, any man who conducts business in this territory under my name will adhere to one standard: absolute loyalty, complete transparency, and total protection of the workers who keep our empire alive. Any man who touches a woman without her consent, or treats an employee like property, will share a cell with Richard Vale in federal prison.”
Every single capo in the room nodded in immediate, profound agreement.
Don Carmine Falcone slowly pushed back his heavy armchair.
He stood up, raised his crystal glass of vintage port into the air, and bowed his silver head respectfully toward me.
“To Donna Emma,” Falcone declared in a voice of ancient, gravelly reverence. “The woman who broke the traitors. 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 toast that shook the chandelier pendants overhead:
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“To Donna Emma! Long live the Moretti Outfit!”
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