Chapter 7 - The Council of Wolves
On Friday morning, the Moretti family council convened at the historic Harvard Club in Midtown Manhattan for the quarterly review of our maritime freight franchises.
The private third-floor library was lined with dark English oak wainscoting, tall leaded-glass windows overlooking 44th Street, and an enormous twenty-seat conference table carved from Cuban mahogany.
Twelve senior capos, logistics executives, and corrupt port commissioners sat around the table, their expensive suits and diamond pinky rings reflecting the soft amber glow of the crystal chandeliers.
Sitting at the far end of the table, holding a glass of twenty-year-old scotch, was my uncle, Silvio Moretti.
At sixty-four, Silvio looked like a sovereign patriarch of the old Sicilian mafia: silver hair swept back with pomade, a custom double-breasted pinstripe suit, and eyes that were cold, cunning, and completely devoid of conscience.
"Alessandro," Silvio said smoothly, raising his glass as I entered the room alone. "We were beginning to think you wouldn't make the session. We heard there was... some unpleasantness with your guard dog at the estate this week."
A few of the older capos chuckled nervously around the table.
I didn't smile.
I took my seat at the head of the table, resting my hands flat against the polished wood. I wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, no tie, my white collar open at the throat.
Behind me, the double doors clicked open.
Marco Bellini entered, carrying a ruggedized tactical tablet and two heavy steel briefcases.
Following Marco was an armed federal marshal in tactical gear, escorting Special Agent Raymond Callahan of the FBI’s Organized Crime Strike Force.
The room froze.
Glasses stilled halfway to mouths; smiles dissolved into masks of sharp, terrified panic.
May you like
Silvio’s hand tightened around his scotch glass until his knuckles turned white. "Alessandro... what is this circus? We don't bring federal badges into a family council!"
"This isn't a family council anymore, Silvio," I said, my baritone booming off the oak paneling like an iron bell. "This is a liquidation."
