Chapter 9 - The Sovereign's Reckoning
At six o'clock in the morning, the heavy double oak doors of the master library on the ground floor clicked open.
The room was filled with the gray, cold light of dawn filtering through the tall casement windows. Standing along the perimeter of the thirty-foot room were six senior captains of the Moretti family—hardened, middle-aged men in dark overcoats who commanded five thousand union workers and twenty shipping terminals across northern Illinois.
At the head of the long conference table sat Dominic Moretti.
He wore his bespoke black suit, the jacket buttoned, his tie straight, his gray eyes flat as polished ice. On the table before him sat an antique leather ledger, a gold fountain pen, and a small, sealed glass vial containing three milliliters of the poisoned formula that Sophie had extracted from the nursery bottle.
Beside Dominic’s chair, standing at rigid, disciplined attention, were Rocco and Matteo.
"The Castiglione family crossed the river last night," Dominic announced.
His voice was conversational, devoid of volume, yet it caused every captain at the table to straighten their spines.
"They did not hit a warehouse," Dominic continued, his fingers tapping the glass vial on the wood. "They did not hijack a shipment on the interstate. They paid Beatrice Vance fifty thousand dollars to put this inside my daughter's cradle."
A collective, stunned intake of breath sucked the air out of the room.
Capo Frank Santoro, a scarred sixty-year-old veteran from the Cicero district, slammed his massive fist onto the table. "An infant? In her nursery? Don Dominic... this violates the treaty of ninety-five. This is a capital breach of the Commission charter."
"The Commission charter does not apply to rabid animals, Frank," Dominic said softly.
He picked up the gold pen. He did not write a letter; he drew a single, thick horizontal line of black ink through three corporate names listed on the ledger before him: Castiglione Maritime Logistics, The North Shore Chemical Terminal, and The Gary River Rail Spur.
He closed the ledger with a quiet, final thud.
"Every asset owned by the Castiglione syndicate between Milwaukee and Indianapolis is seized, effective eight o'clock this morning," Dominic commanded. "Every barge is to be impounded at the Calumet locks. Every truck that turns onto the highway without a Moretti transport stamp is to be stripped and burned on the shoulder."
He looked at his captains, his eyes cold as winter graves.
"And Don Salvatore Castiglione?" Santoro asked, leaning in.
Dominic rose from the table.
He smoothed down the lapels of his black jacket, his frame towering over the six men who controlled the city's shadows.
"Tell Salvatore," Dominic whispered, "that when the sun sets tonight... I will be having dinner in his dining room in Lake Forest. And if his bags are not packed for Sicily before my car turns into his driveway... he will join Beatrice on the Cicero tracks."
The captains rose as one, bowing their heads in deep, terrifying obedience.
"It will be done, Don Dominic," Santoro said.
The men turned on their heels, their heavy coats sweeping as they filed out of the room to unleash the most devastating corporate and tactical liquidation the city of Chicago had witnessed in twenty-five years.
Dominic stood alone in the center of the vast library.
May you like
He did not look at the maps on the wall. He did not look at the security feeds flickering on the wall monitors.
He turned his back on the empire, walked through the private gallery, and climbed the sweeping curved staircase toward the nursery suites above.
