Chapter 6 - The Council of River BaronsDawn broke over New Orleans in a haze of pale violet and amber gold.
The rain had stopped, leaving the cobblestones of the French Quarter gleaming wet beneath the historic wrought-iron balconies.
Inside the private council chambers of the historic Pontalba building overlooking Jackson Square, fourteen syndicate capos and seven international freight magnates sat along an expansive walnut conference table.
At the center of the eastern wall sat Marco Bellini.
Sixty-two years old. Silver hair, impeccably tailored Italian pinstripe suit, his heavy signet ring bearing the Bellini falcon crest resting arrogantly on the mahogany wood.
He was laughing with two shipping commissioners from Biloxi, entirely unaware of what had transpired in the marsh six hours earlier.
The heavy double doors of the chamber swung open with a resounding bang.
Every conversation in the room cut off instantly.
Luca Moretti walked in.
He wasn’t wearing his usual three-piece corporate suit. He wore a dark charcoal wool coat, an open-collared black shirt, and the heavy gold signet ring of the Moretti dynasty on his right hand.
And walking at his right side, dressed in an elegant dark green velvet dress that matched the deep color of the Louisiana cypress swamps, was me.
Marco Bellini’s smile tightened into a brittle grimace as his eyes swept over us.
“Luca!” Marco boomed, spreading his arms with theatrical warmth. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned your own emergency council! Where is Vanessa? We were told this morning’s session was to ratify the joint riverway logistics charter!”
Luca didn’t smile. He didn’t take the leather chair at the head of the table.
He walked with slow, deliberate steps until he stood directly opposite Marco Bellini.
Dante followed behind, carrying the hand-carved cypress lockbox, which had been dried and polished, and set it heavily onto the mahogany table directly in front of Marco.
Marco’s face paled by an imperceptible shade. His eyes darted toward the box, then back to Luca.
“What is this melodrama, Luca? An antique prop?”
“Do you recognize this wood, Marco?” Luca asked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the force of an oncoming freight train.
Marco’s fingers twitched against his signet ring. “It’s cypress. Louisiana is full of cypress.”
“It’s the heartwood of the old pecan grove behind Bayou Teche,” Luca said. “The tavern where my father hid during the winter of 1974.”
The temperature in the chamber seemed to plunge below freezing.
Two older capos at the far end of the table exchanged uneasy glances, their hands instinctively moving away from the table.
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“Luca, my boy,” Marco attempted to chuckle, though his voice had turned thin and dry. “That is ancient history. We won that war thirty years ago.”
“We didn’t win it,” Luca replied coldly. “Samuel Reed won it for us by bleeding on his own floor while you paid Falcone’s hitmen twenty-five thousand dollars to burn him alive.”
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