Chapter 6 - The Council of Shadows
The interior of Warehouse 12 was cavernous, smelling of salt spray, diesel exhaust, and fifty years of cold iron.
Three massive overhead industrial work lights illuminated a thirty-foot steel conference table placed in the center of the concrete floor.
Sitting around the table were the eight senior capos who controlled the maritime logistics, union transport, and commercial real estate of the five boroughs.
At the head of the table stood Silvio Marchetti, dressed in his immaculate dove-gray suit, leaning heavily on his silver serpent cane, gesturing passionately with an encrypted tablet toward the assembled leaders.
"Dante has broken the primary blood covenant of our founders!" Silvio’s voice echoed off the rusted corrugated roof. "He has diverted half a million dollars of our sovereign logistics reserves to harbor the daughter of Thomas Walker—the very union inspector whose family has spent fourteen years filing wrongful death petitions against our terminal charters! He is compromised by sentimentality! He must be removed from the chairmanship tonight!"
The heavy steel sliding doors of the warehouse were thrown open by concussive hydraulic force.
The echo of the impact detonated through the room like an artillery strike.
The eight capos jumped to their feet, reaching for their waistbands, but before their fingers could clear the leather, sixteen red laser sights painted their chests from the overhead catwalks.
Dante Marchetti strode down the center concrete aisle.
He wore a tailored black three-piece suit beneath a heavy black wool overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, breathless terror across the entire hall.
Walking on his right arm was I.
I wore my tailored emerald coat, my posture upright and proud, carrying my father’s leather-bound inspection journal against my chest like a shield.
Behind us walked Frank Callahan, accompanied by Special Agent Raymond Callahan of the FBI’s Organized Crime Strike Force, flanked by four armed federal marshals.
Silvio Marchetti froze.
His walking stick slipped from his fingers, the silver serpent head clattering loudly against the concrete floor.
Every drop of color drained from Silvio’s face, leaving his skin the shade of wet limestone. His dead eyes bulged as he stared at me, then at the federal badges flanking Frank Callahan.
"Dante...?" Silvio stammered, his cultured voice cracking into a shrill, panic-stricken rasp. "What... what is this armed circus? You bring federal agents to an internal Commission council?"
May you like
Dante stopped at the foot of the steel table, resting his hands flat against the cold metal.
"This is not an internal council anymore, Silvio," Dante said, his baritone booming off the iron girders like a funeral bell. "Because Thomas Walker’s daughter just called your debt."
