Chapter 6 - The Council of Three River DynastiesI nodded once.
I looked down at the ruined oligarch with eyes that held no more warmth than the frozen mud beneath the river docks.
“The Dupont alliance is terminated,” I announced, my baritone booming through the vaulted room with the authority of an emperor. “Every commercial berth, every logistics warehouse, and every transport barge operating under your flag in Illinois is seized under the authority of the Moretti Family Trust.”
I looked at Marco.
“Take Henri Dupont and Genevieve Dupont down to the holding vaults beneath Pier 14. Strip their jewelry. Strip their silk. Hand them over to Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance when the federal task force arrives at midnight.”
Genevieve shrieked as two armed tactical operators hauled her backward down the center aisle, her pearls snapping, scattering across the floorboards like hail, her father weeping beside her as their designer shoes dragged through the spilt liquor.
Their screams echoed down the long gallery until the heavy oak double doors clicked shut forever.
Silence returned to the grand ballroom.
Pure, clean, and vast.
I stood at the head of the dais.
I turned my gaze away from the door and walked slowly back to where Clara stood beside the table.
I took her hand, lifting her fingers with infinite gentleness as we stood together before the forty syndicate commanders of Chicago.
“Clara defended my grandmother’s sanctuary today,” I declared, my voice carrying clearly to every soul in the vaulted room. “She spoke the truth when forty men were blind. From this day forward, her family is under my personal protection. The Moretti Logistics Trust assigns fifty percent of the newly acquired Dupont harbor revenues to the Clara and Isabella Memorial Foundation.”
I looked down into her hazel eyes, my voice softening into an unyielding vow.
“Her word is my law in this territory. Anyone who fails to treat her with the honor due to the highest seat of this house will answer directly to my barrel.”
Don Carmine Falcone was the first to move.
The elderly Don raised his crystal glass of Barolo high into the air, bowing his silver head respectfully toward Clara.
“To Donna Clara,” Falcone declared in his gravelly, resonant voice. “The woman who broke the traitors! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Moretti!”
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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 Clara! Long live the house of Moretti!”
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