Chapter 6 - The Council of River Barons
A suffocating, icy silence settled over the thirty syndicate capos in the grand salon.
Men who controlled the concrete unions of Lake County and the distribution corridors of the Great Lakes sat with their hands flat on the white tablecloth, sensing the sudden, lethal shift in the air.
Arthur Vance slowly set his crystal glass down. It hit the wood with an unsteady rattle.
“Matteo, you are letting paranoid delusions derail a forty-million-dollar merger,” Arthur said, trying to force his voice into its polished, patrician cadence. “A scullery maid stole an antique from your mother’s collection years ago. That does not warrant bringing old tragedies to our alliance table.”
Matteo didn't argue.
He tapped the lockbox. Marco stepped forward, opening the leather ledger to the entries from October 1994, laying the document flat before Don Carmine Falcone—the oldest and most revered capo in the Chicago Outfit.
Falcone adjusted his wire-rimmed reading glasses, his liver-spotted hands scanning the ink.
His weathered face hardened into stone.
“Arthur,” Falcone rasped, his voice cutting through the hall like a rusted saw. “Is this your handwriting?”
Arthur swallowed hard, sweat beading across his brow under the chandelier heat.
“Carmine, that was an internal pharmaceutical inventory file from thirty years ago! It proves nothing!”
“It proves you murdered Donna Isabella Rossi,” Falcone said, looking up with ancient, merciless disgust. “And that your daughter tried to murder her surviving child on the floor of this house three hours ago.”
Across the table, thirty syndicate commanders stood up in unison, their chairs scraping back, their hands diving beneath their bespoke jackets.
Arthur Vance backed against his chair, his patrician arrogance evaporating into raw, cornered panic.
“Falcone! Listen to me! The Vance family controls seventy percent of the pharmaceutical supply lines across the northern border! If you move against us, the federal authorities will have warrants on every terminal in Calumet Harbor by dawn!”
Matteo stepped forward, towering over the older man like an executioner on a scaffold.
“The federal authorities are already at your logistics headquarters on 22nd Street, Arthur,” Matteo said, each word falling like an iron anvil. “Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance—your own second cousin—has been reviewing your digitalis purchase records since midnight.”
Arthur’s eyes dilated in pure horror.
“Marcus...?”
“He doesn't like relatives who murder mothers for port leases,” Matteo whispered.
He looked at Dante.
“Bring in Camilla.”
The side doors opened. Two guards dragged Camilla Vance into the room.
Her emerald gown was torn at the hem, her diamond bracelets missing, her makeup smeared across her pale face.
When she saw her father surrounded by thirty armed mobsters, a shrill, hysterical scream tore from her throat.
“Daddy! They know! They found the rosary! They know about the Canadian clinic!”
Arthur Vance slumped into his chair, his hands covering his face, weeping in broken, hopeless agony.
Matteo looked down at the fallen dynasty with absolute, unyielding coldness.
“The Vance alliance is terminated,” Matteo declared, his baritone booming through the vaulted hall. “Every warehouse, every transport permit, and every bank account bearing your name in this territory is seized under the authority of the Outfit.”
He looked at Dante.
May you like
“Take them to the subterranean holding cells at Pier 22. They will sit in the dark until the federal marshals arrive.”
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