Chapter 6 - The Council of the Atlantic SeaboardAt 1:00 AM, the grand dining salon of the Morelli estate was an airless tomb.
Fifty syndicate commanders, deep-water dockmasters, and corporate shipping directors sat along the forty-foot mahogany table beneath the Austrian crystal chandeliers.
Every man sat in rigid, disciplined silence, their hands resting flat against the white damask tablecloths, their faces grim and pale.
At the head of the raised marble dais sat Don Dominic Morelli.
He had removed his suit jacket, wearing an unbuttoned black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled over his corded, scarred forearms, his presence commanding such terrifying, undisputed gravity that not a single capo dared to speak above a whisper.
And sitting in the high-backed carved mahogany armchair directly to his right—the place setting that had been laid with crystal and gold for the sovereign Donna of the Northern Fleet—was me.
I had removed my black service uniform. I wore a tailored gown of deep navy silk that Mrs. Gable had brought down from the private family suites, my dark hair falling over my shoulders in soft waves, my hands resting comfortably on the polished wood.
The heavy double doors of the salon burst open with a concussive boom that rattled the chandeliers overhead.
Dante and four armed tactical operators dragged Silvio Morelli and Vivian Sterling into the center of the marble floor.
Silvio’s face was bruised and bandaged, his eighty-thousand-dollar overcoat shredded at the collar, his hands secured in heavy steel transport cuffs.
Vivian was weeping uncontrollably, her ninety-five-thousand-dollar silk gown stained with soot and oil, her bare feet shivering on the cold floorboards.
Dominic did not shout.
He picked up the gold lighter engraved with the eagle and anchor, turning it slowly between his fingers under the chandelier light.
Flick.
The yellow flame flared bright and steady in the dead silence of the room.
“Gentlemen,” Dominic announced, his voice booming across the vaulted ceiling like a church bell. “Eight months ago, an alliance built on murder, greed, and the execution of my brother was sealed on Route 1.”
He looked at the senior capos who controlled the Portland and Boston terminals.
“Silvio Morelli and the Sterling family orchestrated the hit-and-run that took Leo Morelli’s life, attempting to force a marriage that would surrender our deep-water berths to European cartels. Every foundry, every freight terminal, and every municipal permit operating under their name is seized under the authority of the Morelli Family Trust.”
He paused, letting the magnitude of the announcement settle over the assembly like an iron slab.
“From this day forward, any man who conducts business in this territory under my name will adhere to one standard: absolute loyalty, complete transparency, and total protection of the workers who keep our ships afloat. Any man who touches an innocent employee or plots against his own blood will share a cell with Silvio Morelli in federal prison.”
Every single commander in the room nodded in immediate, profound agreement.
Don Carmine Falcone, the legendary eighty-year-old capo of the Brooklyn waterfront who had traveled to Boston by private helicopter at midnight, slowly pushed back his heavy armchair.
The ancient 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 me.
“To Donna Maya,” Falcone declared in his gravelly, resonant voice. “The woman who spotted the monofilament seam and broke the traitors! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Morelli!”
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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 pendants overhead:
“To Donna Maya! Long live the house of Morelli!”
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