Chapter 6 - The Council of River BaronsAt 8:00 PM, the ruined industrial shell of the Goose Island Foundry Bay 4 was illuminated by the blinding glare of twelve portable diesel halogen towers.
Outside, a freezing sleet beat against the corrugated iron walls, rattling the high rusted rafters that had collapsed on my spine six years earlier.
Around a sixty-foot conference table constructed from raw structural steel I-beams sat seventy-five of the most ruthless men in the Midwestern underworld:
Syndicate capos from Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, and Milwaukee; union business agents from the Teamsters and the Longshoremen; deep-water harbor pilots; and three municipal judges whose election campaigns had been funded with Moretti cash.
Every man sat in rigid, terrified silence, their heavy wool coats buttoned against the draft, their eyes fixed on the empty iron throne at the head of the slab.
The heavy sliding steel doors of the foundry groaned open with an ear-splitting screech.
I walked down the central concrete ramp.
I did not use a cane.
I wore my heavy black shearling coat open over a charcoal three-piece suit, my knuckles bare, my six-foot-three frame moving with an unhurried, terrifying power that shook the very ground beneath their boots.
And walking at my right side, holding my massive hand with calm, unblinking dignity, was seven-year-old Clara.
Behind us marched old Matteo and sixty armed longshoremen carrying tactical carbines, their faces carved from stone.
The seventy-five mob bosses stood to their feet in unison, their chairs scraping back across the concrete with a sound like a freight train jumping the rails.
Men who had buried twenty rivals in the calumet marshes crossed themselves in open, superstitious horror.
“The Foundry King,” Don Carmine Falcone’s oldest nephew, Marcus Falcone, gasped from the head of the table. “He’s walking.”
I did not take the seat at the head of the table.
I walked to the center of the steel beam, lifted Clara gently by her waist, and set her onto the raised iron platform beside the podium.
I placed my calloused hands flat on the cold steel, my dark eyes sweeping across the seventy-five commanders like a searchlight.
“Six years ago,” I began, my deep baritone booming through the cavernous foundry with the force of an artillery barrage, “an explosion brought two hundred tons of this roof down on my sister’s chest.”
I pointed a heavy, scarred finger toward the center aisle.
Two longshoremen dragged Julian Vance forward, dumping him onto the wet concrete. His designer coat was shredded, his legs bound in heavy steel transport splints, his face pale as sour cream.
“For six years, this parasite told you that Bianca Moretti died in an industrial accident,” I continued, each word falling like lead. “He told you that I was a broken cripple who could only sign tax returns from a bedroom.”
I picked up the black leather ledger from the table, tossing it directly into Marcus Falcone’s hands.
“Read the ledger, Marcus. Read how Julian Vance paid four million dollars to blow this foundation apart so he could move eighty million dollars in stolen gold through our berths.”
Falcone scanned the pages, his liver-spotted hands shaking with violent, ancient disgust.
“Vance,” Falcone rasped, his voice vibrating with absolute fury. “You murdered Antonio Moretti’s daughter for a salvage cut?”
Julian lay curled on the concrete, weeping in blind, hopeless terror.
“Falcone! Listen to me! The council was losing control of the waterfront! The federal regulators were closing in! I did it to protect the assets!”
“You don't protect an empire by poisoning its Don,” Falcone said, spitting onto the floor at Julian’s head.
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The old underboss turned toward me, bowing his silver head with profound, ancient reverence.
“The Commission recognizes the blood debt, Don Lorenzo. The house of Vance is stripped of all charters, all territory, and all protection.”
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