Chapter 6 - The Council of Seven Casinos
Silence returned to the high-limit salon.
Pure, clean, and terrifyingly cold.
Dante stood up from the mahogany chair, resting his knuckles flat against the green felt, towering over the seven casino bosses who had spent four years whispering that the King of Dice was a dying invalid.
“From this hour forward,” Dante announced, his deep baritone rolling across the room with concussive weight, “the Santoro syndicate takes back direct operational control of every high-limit salon from downtown to the airport.”
He pointed a heavy, scarred finger toward Toby.
“Rose Quinn is appointed Executive Director of the newly chartered Santoro-Quinn Foundation for Hospitality Workers. The foundation will receive ten percent of the gross gaming drop from every property on this table—permanently endowed, unencumbered by syndicate tax.”
He looked at the seven bosses, his eyes hardening into flint.
“Toby Quinn is under my personal protection. Anyone who looks at that boy without the respect due to my own blood will answer directly to my barrel.”
Marcus Falcone was the first to stand.
The Chicago underboss picked up his glass of thirty-year-old scotch, raised it high into the air, and bowed his silver head toward Dante and the boy.
“To Don Dante,” Falcone declared, his gravelly voice vibrating off the chandeliers. “The King who broke the iron! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Santoro!”
One by one, the remaining six casino bosses stood to their feet, their voices joining together in a thunderous, room-shaking toast that rattled the crystal pendants overhead:
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“To Don Dante! Long live the King of Dice!”
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