Chapter 6 - The Council of Five FamiliesBy seven o'clock that evening, the lower banquet salon of the Moretti fortress was packed with fifty of the most feared syndicate bosses, union leaders, and cargo directors in the United States.
Capos from the Gambino, Genovese, Lucchese, and Bonanno families sat around the sixty-foot mahogany conference table beneath soaring Austrian crystal chandeliers, their faces grim, their hands flat on the white linen tablecloths.
Every man in that room commanded hundreds of street soldiers and hundreds of millions in contraband.
Yet not a single man spoke above a whisper.
The double oak doors at the head of the dais swung open with a heavy, concussive thud.
Lorenzo Moretti strode into the hall.
He wore an immaculate bespoke black three-piece suit, his presence radiating such terrifying, undisputed authority that all fifty mob bosses stood to their feet in unison, their heads bowed in absolute deference.
And walking at his right side, holding his massive, scarred index finger in her small hand, was four-year-old Lily.
Lily wore her navy velvet pinafore dress, her brown curls bouncing with every step, her chin held high as she surveyed the fifty hardened killers with calm, fearless curiosity.
Walking half a pace behind them, dressed in an elegant dark-navy wool dress with diamond pearl combs in my hair, was me.
Lorenzo 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 gold cutlery and crystal for the future Donna of the Five Families.
He reached down, lifted Lily 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.
Lorenzo placed his heavy, tattooed hands on the back of Lily’s chair, his dark gray eyes sweeping across the assembly like twin searchlights.
“Gentlemen,” Lorenzo announced, his deep baritone booming across the vaulted hall with the weight of an iron gavel. “An alliance built on murder, greed, and twenty-four months of treason was terminated in my library two hours ago.”
He looked at the senior capos who controlled the Brooklyn and New Jersey terminals.
“The Castiglione syndicate is officially liquidated. Henri and Victoria Castiglione are in federal holding awaiting indictments for the murder of Mia Moretti 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 Moretti 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 New York.
He laid it flat on the mahogany table before the assembly.
“The newly acquired deep-water terminals at Pier 42 are officially rechristened the Mia and Lily Maritime Logistics Center,” Lorenzo declared, his voice ringing with absolute, undisputed authority. “And fifty percent of the commercial revenues are permanently assigned to the Lily Miller Foundation for Underprivileged Children, providing free healthcare, child care, and housing defense for working families across all five boroughs.”
He looked down at me, his slate-gray eyes shining with an emotion so deep it made my breath catch in my throat.
“Hannah Miller 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 Brooklyn 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 Boss,” Falcone declared in his gravelly, resonant voice. “To Donna Hannah. And to Don Lorenzo! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Moretti!”
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:
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“To the Little Boss! Long live the house of Moretti!”
Lily 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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