Chapter 7
The Grand Regency Hotel in Midtown Manhattan was neutral ground—an ancient, gilded institution governed by the High Council of the Five Families. No weapons were permitted beyond the foyer; no bloodshed was tolerated within its limestone walls under penalty of universal execution.
In the private, oak-paneled ballroom on the forty-fourth floor, twenty-five elders and capos sat around an oval mahogany table beneath heavy crystal chandeliers. At the head of the southern faction sat Victor Hale, looking pale and furious, flanked by three senior consiglieri. Beside him sat Linda, her face caked in heavy makeup to cover her pale dread, her fingers nervously twisting her pearls.
"Salvatore Moretti has violated the blood treaty!" Victor bellowed, slamming his palm onto the polished wood. "He attacked my son at a family celebration! He abducted my daughter-in-law, who carries the lawful Hale heir! And two hours ago, his soldiers ambushed Ryan outside a public medical building!"
An elder from the Genovese family stroked his chin, looking around the table. "These are severe accusations, Victor. Where is your son to testify?"
The heavy double doors of the boardroom were thrown open.
Salvatore Moretti walked into the room.
He looked immaculate. His three-piece navy suit was tailored to perfection, his hair neatly combed, his short beard impeccably groomed. He walked with the effortless, breathtaking confidence of a sovereign entering his court.
Behind him marched two Moretti soldiers, dragging Ryan Hale between them.
Ryan’s face was a grotesque ruin—his jaw bound in white gauze, his left eye swollen shut, his clothes torn and stained with grease. The soldiers threw him onto his knees in the center of the Persian rug, where he slumped like a broken sack.
A collective murmur of shock rippled through the assembled dons.
Linda gasped, half-rising from her chair. "Ryan! Oh, my God, look what he did to my boy!"
"Sit down, Linda," Salvatore said. His voice was extraordinarily quiet, yet the room fell instantly silent.
Salvatore walked to the foot of the table, resting his gloved hands on the back of an empty leather chair. He did not look at Victor; he looked directly at the Commission elders.
"You were told a story of abduction," Salvatore murmured, his controlled pauses drawing every eye to his face. "Allow me to present the truth."
Salvatore nodded to Franco, who stepped forward and dropped a thick leather binder onto the table. It slid across the mahogany, stopping directly in front of the Genovese elder.
"Inside that folder," Salvatore said, "you will find the forensic medical report certified by Dr. Robert Bennett. Three cracked ribs. Twelve contusions across her arms and shoulders. Inflicted systematically over four months on my twenty-five-year-old pregnant daughter."
Victor leaped to his feet. "Lies! Fabricated by a Moretti payroll doctor!"
"Turn to page seven, Elder," Salvatore continued calmly, completely ignoring the outburst. "You will find the wire transfers from Victor Hale’s offshore accounts to the Valenti family in Chicago. A contract to purchase thirty military rifles and two crates of fragmentation grenades, scheduled to be delivered to Brooklyn next Tuesday."
The Genovese elder flipped the page, his brow furrowing into deep, dangerous lines. "Chicago? You brought outside syndicates onto New York soil, Victor?"
Victor began to sweat, his fair skin flushing crimson under his collar. "It was... it was an investment! A defensive measure!"
"And turn to page twelve," Salvatore added, his voice dropping into a lethal, chilling cadence. "The surveillance logs from the clinic parking garage this morning. Ryan Hale attempted an armed extraction of my daughter while she was entering a prenatal examination. He fired six rounds in a civilian medical facility."
The room grew colder than a crypt. Bringing automatic weapons into a neutral medical facility was a capital violation of underworld law.
"Ryan," the Genovese elder said, his voice hard as iron. "Is this your signature on the Chicago transfer?"
Ryan, kneeling on the rug, could only weep through his broken jaw, shaking his head in pathetic, blubbering terror.
May you like
Salvatore stepped forward, placing his palm flat on the table, leaning in toward Victor Hale.
"You asked the Commission for a ruling, Victor," Salvatore whispered. "Now ask them who has the right to butcher your family."
