THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED A HIT ON THE TRAIN WHISTLEBLOWER—UNTIL DANTE MORETTI PULLED HER INTO HIS COMPARTMENT. / Chapter 6 / 15

Chapter 6 - The Council of River BaronsDawn broke over Lake Michigan in a violent, bleeding streak of crimson and cold steel-gray.

Inside the grand Gold Coast ballroom of the Drake Hotel, thirty-two syndicate capos, private terminal operators, and corrupt municipal delegates sat around an expansive mahogany conference table beneath soaring crystal chandeliers.

At the head of the southern table sat Don Arthur Vance.

Sixty-eight years old. Silver hair slicked back with patrician elegance, wearing an immaculate seven-thousand-dollar bespoke charcoal suit, his gold cufflinks bearing the Vance family crest catching the chandelier light.

Beside him sat Giselle Vance.

She was radiant in an ivory silk morning suit, her diamond engagement ring flashing as she delicately dabbed her lips with a linen napkin, sipping espresso while whispering with two high-ranking city commissioners.

She believed her contractors had completed their work. She believed the train whistleblower was floating in an unmarked drainage canal in Indiana, and that Dante Moretti was currently stranded in the countryside dealing with an operational train delay.

“Gentlemen,” Arthur Vance announced, clearing his throat with theatrical authority. “Given Dante Moretti’s unexpected travel complications in Indiana, Vance Capital is prepared to assume temporary administrative conservatorship over the port escrow accounts ahead of Thursday’s formal merger.”

Several older underbosses exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to voice an objection against the city’s most powerful banking magnate.

Then, the heavy carved oak double doors at the rear of the ballroom burst open with a concussive bang that rattled the chandeliers overhead.

Every conversation in the room died in an instant.

Dante Moretti walked down the grand center aisle.

He wore a tailored black three-piece suit, his white shirt open at the throat, his presence radiating an aura of such absolute, lethal authority that three capos near the door immediately stood from their chairs in deference.

And walking at his right side, dressed in an elegant dark navy wool dress that accentuated her graceful silhouette, her head held high and her hazel eyes burning with unimpeachable moral resolve, was Elena Cross.

In her hands, she carried the water-damaged leather binder from Vance Capital.

Arthur Vance froze. The silver espresso spoon slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the porcelain saucer.

Giselle’s painted smile evaporated in half a second, her skin turning the sickly shade of spoiled cream.

“Dante...?” Giselle gasped, her voice shrill and brittle across the silent room.

Dante stopped three paces from the head of the table. He did not take his seat.

He stood towering over the assembly like an ancient warlord presiding over a tribunal.

“You’re sitting in my chair, Arthur,” Dante said softly.

Arthur Vance swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly as he slowly pushed back his heavy armchair and stood up, trying to muster his aristocratic composure.

“Dante, my boy! What is the meaning of this dramatic entrance? We were told your train suffered an equipment malfunction near Gary!”

“My train suffered an ambush authorized by your daughter, Arthur,” Dante replied, each word dropping like an iron anvil onto the mahogany table.

He looked down at Elena.

“Elena, please. Give the council their morning reading.”

Elena stepped forward without a tremor in her hands. She opened the leather binder, laying the certified wire-transfer receipts, the offshore Panamanian charters, and the encrypted mercenary contracts directly in front of Don Carmine Falcone—the oldest and most respected capo in the Midwest.

“Thirty-two million dollars,” Elena announced, her clear, powerful voice cutting through the hall like a razor blade. “Laundered from the municipal port fund through Vance Capital to hire private mercenary hit squads from Montreal.”