Chapter 6 - The Council of Atlantic Syndicate BaronsAt 11:30 PM, the grand council hall in the subterranean fortress beneath the boardwalk was locked down under Level Four syndicate martial law.
The massive iron blast doors were sealed with six-inch hydraulic bolts. Sixty of the most powerful casino capos, harbor directors, and private lenders from Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore sat along the sixty-foot mahogany conference table beneath ancient oil portraits of maritime trade barons.
At the head of the raised marble dais sat Don Dominic Moretti.
He wore an immaculate charcoal-black three-piece suit, his presence radiating such terrifying, undisputed gravity that no man dared to draw a full breath.
Sitting in the high-backed velvet armchair directly to his right was Donna Sofia, draped in an imperial gown of dark navy velvet, her black calfskin ledger resting on the table before her.
And sitting beside Dominic, dressed in a custom gown of deep emerald silk that accentuated her graceful beauty, her dark hair swept up in an elegant chignon, was Laura Hayes.
The heavy iron doors of the fortress swung open with a concussive boom.
Marco and four armed commandos dragged Salvatore Moretti—sixty-five years old, the billionaire chairman of the Moretti Gaming Consortium—into the center of the room.
His tuxedo was torn at the collar, his face bruised and pale as wet paper, his wrists bound in heavy steel transport cuffs.
Dominic did not raise his voice.
He tapped the table.
Laura stepped forward, placing the titanium micro-drive into the central console.
The sixty-inch display above the stone fireplace flickered to life, projecting the unredacted maritime manifests from 2018 alongside the decrypted wire transfers from Zurich:
OPERATION ZURICH — TARGET: SOFIA MORETTI.
CONSIDERATION: $25,000,000 USD.
PAYEE: PRIVATE DEFENSE HOLDINGS (SALVATORE MORETTI).
Salvatore Moretti looked up at the glowing screen, and all the blood drained from his face until he looked like an unburied corpse.
“Dominic... please!” Salvatore wept, collapsing onto his knees on the stone floor, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic shriek. “The Commission demanded central control of the digital books! Your mother refused to modernize! I was forced to act to protect the family’s revenue!”
Don Carmine Falcone’s oldest nephew, Marcus Falcone—the legendary seventy-year-old capo of the Brooklyn docks who sat as an independent mediator—slowly pushed his heavy chair back from the table.
The ancient mobster stood tall, leaning on his carved ash walking stick, looking down at Salvatore with pitiless, ancient disgust.
“You don't protect revenue by putting grease on a Donna’s brake lines, Salvatore,” Falcone rasped, his gravelly voice vibrating off the vaulted ceiling. “You brought treason into our brotherhood. You desecrated our sacred covenants.”
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The old underboss turned toward Dominic and Donna Sofia, bowing his silver head with profound, sovereign respect.
“The Commission recognizes the blood debt, Don Dominic. The house of Salvatore Moretti is extinguished. Every casino, every gaming terminal, and every transport vessel operating under their name belongs to the throne.”
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