Chapter 6 - The Council of the Five FamiliesAt 9:00 PM, the grand council chamber in the subterranean vault of the Long Island compound was packed with sixty of the most feared syndicate capos, port commissioners, and deep-water dockmasters in the United States.
Every man sat in rigid, disciplined silence along the sixty-foot mahogany conference table beneath soaring oil paintings of early maritime trade barons.
At the head of the raised marble dais stood Alexander Moretti.
He wore an immaculate bespoke black three-piece tuxedo, his presence commanding such terrifying, undisputed gravity that not a single capo dared to speak above a whisper.
And standing at his right hand, dressed in an elegant dark-wool business suit that Mrs. Gable had tailored for her, her auburn hair swept up in a crisp chignon, was Rose Keller.
Beside her sat eight-year-old Mia, wearing a clean navy jumper with a brand-new emerald velvet bow in her curls, her small hands resting calmly on the polished table.
Alexander did not tap a glass. He did not raise his hand.
He simply rested his knuckles on the polished mahogany wood, his dark eyes sweeping across the sixty commanders like an iron battery.
“Gentlemen,” Alexander announced, his voice booming across the vaulted hall with concussive weight. “Five years ago, an explosion in this harbor was used to strap me into a titanium cage.”
He pointed a scarred finger toward the center aisle.
Two armed operators dragged Marcus Vance forward, dumping him onto the flagstones. His pinstripe suit was shredded, his knees bound in heavy steel transport splints, his face pale as sour cream.
“For five years, this traitor told you that the Iron Monarch was an invalid who could only sign tax returns from a bedroom,” Alexander continued, each word falling like lead. “He told you that our deep-water berths needed to be sold to European cartels.”
He picked up the unsealed Zurich ledgers from the table, tossing them directly into Don Carmine Falcone’s hands.
“Read the ledgers, Carmine. Read how Marcus Vance paid four million dollars to wire a neuro-inhibitor into my chair so he could loot our pension reserves.”
Falcone scanned the pages, his liver-spotted hands shaking with violent, ancient disgust.
“Vance,” Falcone rasped, his voice vibrating with absolute fury. “You poisoned Antonio Moretti’s son for a management cut?”
Marcus lay curled on the stone, weeping in blind, hopeless terror.
“Falcone! Listen to me! Alexander was too aggressive! The federal regulators were closing in! I did it to protect our assets!”
“You don't protect an empire by crippling its sovereign, Marcus,” Falcone replied with chilling finality.
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The eighty-year-old Don turned toward Alexander, bowing his silver head with profound, ancient reverence.
“The Commission recognizes the blood debt, Don Alexander. The house of Vance is stripped of all charters, all territory, and all protection across the Atlantic seaboard.”
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