Chapter 5 - The Council at the Navy Yard
At 6:00 AM, the historic brick-and-timber foundry at the Brooklyn Navy Yard was illuminated by the cold, pale light of dawn breaking through the industrial skylights.
Around a thirty-foot steel conference table sat the twelve senior caporegimes of the Kane syndicate, flanked by Don Antonio Valenti and his eight senior lieutenants from Chicago.
At the head of the table sat Julian Kane.
At thirty-four, Julian was the picture of refined, corporate underworld ambition: bespoke pinstripe suit, diamond cufflinks, slicked-back hair, and a smile that had smoothed over three territorial betrayals.
"Gentlemen," Julian was saying, tapping an encrypted tablet on the table. "My cousin Roman has demonstrated an unfortunate, catastrophic lapse in strategic judgment. He has chosen to father a child with a common restaurant worker from Queens, threatening our bloodline alliances. House Kane cannot maintain sovereign control of the Atlantic shipping lanes without the Valenti merger."
Julian slid a multi-million-dollar maritime treaty across the table toward Don Antonio Valenti.
"Under the emergency provisions of the family trust," Julian continued, "with the formal endorsement of the Dowager Vivienne Kane, executive authority transfers to my office upon ratification of this alliance."
The massive iron rolling doors of the foundry blew inward with a concussive, hydraulic boom.
The security sentries stationed at the entrance were thrown back against the concrete walls as sixteen operators from Roman Kane’s private tactical division swept through the breach, suppressed carbines held at the high ready, red laser sights painting every man at the table with overlapping crimson dots.
Roman Kane strode down the center concrete aisle.
He wore an impeccably tailored black three-piece suit beneath a heavy black cashmere overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, suffocating silence across the entire hall.
Julian froze. His gold fountain pen slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the steel tabletop.
"Roman...?" Julian stammered, his face draining of every drop of color. "What... what is this? The council session was called under formal truce rules!"
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Roman stopped at the foot of the table, his slate-gray eyes locking onto his cousin with the cold, immovable finality of an iron cage closing.
"Truce rules apply to men of honor, Julian," Roman said, his baritone booming off the corrugated roof like an iron bell. "You, however, are a dog who sent armed men to hold my pregnant wife down in the mud."
