Chapter 6 - The Council of the Crescent CityAt 1:30 AM, the grand dining hall of the Garden District mansion was convened under emergency syndicate admiralty.
The forty prominent guests who had witnessed the confrontation on the landing sat in breathless, petrified silence along the thirty-foot mahogany table beneath the Austrian crystal chandeliers.
At the head of the raised dais sat Don Julian Cross.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket, wearing an unbuttoned black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his corded, ink-stained forearms, his presence commanding such terrifying, undisputed gravity that no man dared to draw a full breath.
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 future Donna of New Orleans—was me.
I had removed my black uniform apron. I wore a tailored gown of deep emerald 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.
Dante and four tactical operators dragged Chief Inspector Thomas Bennett and Camilla Dupont into the center of the floor.
Bennett’s face was bruised and bandaged, his arms secured behind him in steel transport cuffs.
Camilla was weeping uncontrollably, her seventy yards of Chantilly silk stripped of all jewelry, her bare feet shivering on the cold floorboards.
Julian did not shout.
He picked up the antique silver letter opener from his place setting, turning it slowly between his fingers.
“Gentlemen,” Julian announced, his baritone booming across the vaulted ceiling like a church bell. “An alliance built on fraud, extortion, and twelve months of treason was terminated on my staircase tonight.”
He looked at the parish judges and the city council members who had endorsed Bennett’s task force.
“Chief Inspector Thomas Bennett and the Dupont family have been formally indicted by the federal grand jury across eighty-four counts of maritime extortion, corporate conspiracy, and official corruption. Every freight terminal, every transport barge, and every municipal permit operating under their name is seized under the authority of the Cross Maritime Trust.”
He paused, letting the magnitude of the announcement settle over the assembly.
“From this day forward, any man who conducts business in this harbor 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 employee or uses the power of the state to extort our people will share a cell with Thomas Bennett in federal prison.”
Every single official 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 New Orleans for the summit, 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 Clara,” Falcone declared in his gravelly, resonant voice. “The woman who spotted the golden thread and broke the traitors! Honor to the brave! Honor to the house of Cross!”
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One by one, the remaining thirty-nine syndicate commanders and council members stood from their chairs, raising their glasses in a synchronized, thunderous chorus that shook the crystal chandeliers overhead:
“To Donna Clara! Long live the house of Cross!”
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