Chapter 6 - The Arraignment at Table Six
At 11:30 a.m. on Friday, the grand private dining room of the historic Metropolitan Club on East 60th Street in Manhattan was convened for an emergency plenary session of the Five Families Maritime Commission.
Seated around the thirty-foot mahogany table were twenty-four senior caporegimes, union bosses, and corporate lenders.
At the head of the table sat Ricardo Moretti.
Dressed in an immaculate bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, sporting a gold Patek Philippe watch, sipping vintage Barolo, Ricardo looked like an emperor about to receive his crown.
Beside him sat his son Vincent, and seated across from them, wearing an expensive black mink stole and diamond earrings, was Isabella Marcone.
"The unfortunate permanent incapacitation of my nephew Dominic has created a dangerous vacuum across the eastern ports, gentlemen," Ricardo announced smoothly, tapping a leather-bound folder containing the six proxy documents. "Under Section Eight of the Moretti Sovereign Testamentary Trust, in the event of total physical and cognitive disability of the sitting Don, executive receivership vests in the surviving senior patriarchal line."
Ricardo unscrewed the cap of his gold Montblanc pen.
"With your concurrence, I will execute the transfer of the six Newark deepwater berths to Apex Commercial Maritime LLC before the close of trading."
A murmur of assent rippled through the room. Men began nodding, preparing to sign the witness protocols.
The heavy carved double oak doors of the grand dining hall were suddenly blown inward off their brass hinges with a concussive, hydraulic roar.
BANG.
The chamber orchestra near the mezzanine died mid-chord.
The twenty-four titans of the New York underworld sprang to their feet in unison, hands instinctively reaching beneath tailored suit jackets for concealed weapons.
Nobody moved.
Stepping through the shattered entrance was Dominic Moretti.
He was not using a wheelchair.
He was not leaning on a cane.
He walked with slow, measured, thunderous strides, his six-foot-two frame straight as an iron spar, dressed in an immaculate custom-tailored midnight-blue three-piece suit with razor-sharp lapels. His slate-gray eyes held the terrifying, uncontested dominance of an apex predator returning to reclaim his kill.
Walking beside him, holding his left arm with quiet, regal sovereignty, was Clara Vance.
She wore an exquisite dark navy wool suit with an ivory silk blouse, wearing the Moretti ancestral gold-and-sapphire signet compass around her neck.
And walking on Dominic’s other side, holding his large right hand with proud, fearless three-year-old steps, was Mia—wearing a pastel yellow dress and shiny red patent leather shoes, clutching her one-eared rabbit proudly under her arm.
Following behind them were Arthur Ross, Detective Marcus Thorne of the State Police Major Crimes Division, and Lead Special Agent Sarah Lin of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, flanked by eight armed federal marshals in dark tactical windbreakers.
Ricardo Moretti’s wineglass slipped from his fingers.
The crystal shattered across the white linen tablecloth, vintage Barolo spreading like fresh arterial blood across the six proxy documents.
"Dominic...?" Ricardo stammered, leaping backward from the table, knocking his high-backed chair onto the floorboards. "What... what is this madness? You were declared quadriplegic by Dr. Vance—"
"Dr. Vance is currently in federal holding at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Uncle," Dominic said.
May you like
His clear, resonant baritone boomed through the vaulted hall without the aid of a microphone, freezing every man in the room to the marble floor.
"And your receivership was terminated ten minutes ago."
