Chapter 6 - The Council of Three Harbors
By eight o'clock that evening, the grand banquet hall of the Vance estate on Lake Shore Drive was packed with fifty of the most powerful syndicate capos, deep-water port commissioners, and freight directors in the Midwest.
Capos from the Detroit, Cleveland, Milwaukee, and Chicago outfits sat around the forty-foot mahogany conference table beneath three tiered Austrian crystal chandeliers, their faces grim, their hands flat on the white damask tablecloths.
Every man in that room commanded hundreds of armed soldiers and millions in commercial shipping.
Yet not a single man spoke above a whisper.
The heavy double oak doors at the head of the dais swung open with a concussive, resonant boom.
Christian Vance strode into the hall.
He wore an immaculate bespoke black three-piece suit, his midnight-black silk tie pinned with an antique platinum anchor, his presence commanding such terrifying, undisputed gravity that all fifty mob bosses stood to their feet in unison, their heads bowed in absolute deference.
His heavy silver-capped walking cane was gone.
He walked with an unhurried, powerful stride, his chin lifted, his amber eyes blazing with the undisputed sovereignty of an apex predator whose chains had been shattered.
And walking at his right side, holding his massive, scarred index finger in her small hand, was three-year-old Maya.
Maya wore a brand-new pinafore dress of dark navy velvet, white lace tights, and tiny patent-leather Mary Janes that clicked rhythmically against the polished parquet floor.
Her curly brown hair was swept back with a small silver hair clip shaped like a blooming orchid, her cheeks rosy, her big hazel eyes surveying the fifty hardened killers with calm, innocent curiosity.
Walking half a pace behind them, dressed in an elegant gown of dark-emerald wool that draped gracefully over my slender frame, my dark hair pinned with pearl combs, was me.
Christian did not take his seat immediately.
He walked to the center of the dais, stopped before the high-backed carved armchair of the sovereign, and pulled out the velvet chair directly to his right—the place setting that had been laid with crystal and gold for the future Donna of the Great Lakes.
He reached down, lifted Maya gently beneath her arms, and set her onto the velvet cushion.
The fifty syndicate bosses gasped in collective, stunned disbelief. Hardened capos who had spent thirty years surviving gang wars exchanged wide, bewildered glances.
Christian placed his heavy, scarred hands on the back of Maya’s chair, his amber eyes sweeping across the assembly like twin searchlights.
“Gentlemen,” Christian announced, his deep baritone booming across the vaulted hall with the weight of an iron gavel. “An alliance built on murder, greed, and four years of treason was terminated in my conservatory three hours ago.”
He looked at the senior capos who controlled the Calumet and Navy Pier container terminals.
“The Elder Faction led by Vincent Vance has been officially liquidated. Vincent and Julian Vance are in federal custody awaiting capital murder indictments for the assassination of Donna Giuliana Vance and two hundred million dollars in maritime embezzlement. Every berth, every warehouse, and every transport route operating under their name is absorbed directly into the Vance Family Trust.”
He paused, letting the magnitude of the announcement settle over the room like an avalanche.
Then he reached into his breast pocket and produced an official legal charter stamped with the golden seal of the State of Illinois.
He laid it flat on the mahogany table before the assembly.
“The newly acquired deep-water logistics hub at Pier 14 is officially rechristened the Giuliana and Maya Maritime Logistics Center,” Christian declared, his voice ringing with absolute, undisputed authority. “And fifty percent of the commercial revenues are permanently assigned to the Maya Silva Foundation for Underprivileged Children, providing free healthcare, child care, and housing defense for working families across the Midwest.”
He looked down at me, his amber eyes shining with an emotion so deep it made my breath catch in my throat.
“Elena Silva is appointed Executive Trustee of the foundation, with full voting authority on the Maritime Board of Directors. Her word is my law in this territory. Anyone who fails to treat her and her daughter with the honor due to the highest seat of this house will answer directly to my barrel.”
Don Salvatore Falcone, the oldest and most respected capo from the South Side docks, slowly pushed his heavy armchair back.
The seventy-year-old mobster stood tall, leaning on his carved ash walking stick, raised his crystal glass of vintage Barolo into the air, and bowed his silver head respectfully toward my daughter.
“To the Little Bear,” Falcone declared in his gravelly, resonant voice. “To Donna Elena. And to Don Christian! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Vance!”
One by one, the remaining forty-nine syndicate commanders stood from their chairs, raising their glasses in a synchronized, thunderous chorus that shook the crystal chandeliers overhead:
“To the Little Bear! Long live the house of Vance!”
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Maya giggled happily, picking up a gold dessert spoon and tapping it against her water goblet with a clear, ringing chime that cut through the thunder of the room.
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