Chapter 5 - The Council in the Grand Salon
At 10:00 PM, the grand ballroom on the ground floor of the Moretti estate was sealed under armed guard.
The rain outside had intensified into a howling coastal storm that rattled the tall leaded-glass windows facing Long Island Sound.
Inside, the room was illuminated by three towering crystal chandeliers. Sitting around the thirty-foot mahogany conference table were the eight senior caporegimes who commanded the maritime transport, logistics, and union divisions of New York and New Jersey.
At the center of the table sat Marco Bellini.
At forty-two, Marco was the picture of refined, aristocratic underworld power: bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, silver silk tie, manicured hands, and a diamond signet ring that caught the chandelier light.
He sat comfortably, sipping twenty-year-old scotch from a crystal tumbler, laughing quietly with Salvatore Vane, the union director from Brooklyn.
"Dominic called an emergency council at ten on a rainy Tuesday," Marco was saying with an easy, confident grin. "Probably another round of federal subpoenas regarding the container leases. We sign the legal defense pooling agreement, pay Callahan his retainer, and go home to our beds."
The massive, carved mahogany double doors of the ballroom swung open with concussive force.
The conversation died instantly.
Twenty armed operators from the Moretti tactical security division swept through the archway, their suppressed carbines held at the high ready, systematically sealing every exit, service corridor, and terrace door in the hall.
Dominic Moretti strode down the center aisle.
He wore an impeccably tailored black three-piece suit beneath a heavy black wool overcoat, his presence commanding immediate, breathless terror across the eight-man council.
Walking on his right arm was I.
I wore an elegant, tailored navy wool power dress Mrs. Ferrara had procured from the master guest wardrobe, my dark hair styled in an immaculate chignon, my chin lifted with sovereign, unbending dignity.
Behind us walked Frank Callahan, accompanied by Special Agent Raymond Callahan of the FBI’s Organized Crime Strike Force, flanked by two armed federal marshals.
Every caporegime at the table jumped to their feet in sheer, paralyzed shock.
Marco Bellini froze. His crystal tumbler slipped from his fingers, shattering against the mahogany table in a violent spray of scotch and crystal shards.
Every drop of color drained from Marco’s face, leaving his skin the shade of wet limestone. His eyes bulged as he stared at me, his mouth opening and closing in soundless, suffocating horror.
"Elena...?" Marco gasped, his voice climbing into a shrill, cracked register. "No... no, this is impossible... you died on Route 9W..."
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Dominic stopped at the head of the table, resting his hands flat against the wood.
"My wife didn't die on Route 9W, Marco," Dominic said, his baritone dropping into sub-zero granite. "She survived your fire. She raised my daughter in the dark for five years. And tonight, she came home to watch your empire burn."
