Chapter 22
The private jet sliced through the clouds, landing in New York under the cover of darkness. Raffaele did not bring an army; he brought only Vincent and four elite, heavily armed operators. He walked into the Commission’s headquarters—a massive, opulent penthouse in Manhattan—projecting the terrifying, unyielding dominance of an apex predator.
Five of the most powerful Mafia bosses in the country sat around a long, polished marble table. They looked at Raffaele with a mixture of awe and profound fear.
"Raffaele Marconi," the Chairman, an elderly, ruthless man named Don Salvatore, sneered. "You slaughtered the Greco family and seized Chicago. You violated the ancient treaties. We demand that you surrender the northern ports and pay a restitution of fifty million dollars."
Raffaele did not sit down. He stood at the end of the table, his unbuttoned dress shirt exposing the sharp, elegant tattoos on his chest.
"I protected my son," Raffaele stated, his voice a low, vibrating hum of absolute danger. "The Grecos sent a spy into my home. They forfeited their lives the moment they threatened my bloodline."
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"Your bloodline does not excuse anarchy!" Salvatore roared, slamming his fist on the table.
"There is no anarchy," Raffaele corrected smoothly, his cold eyes sweeping over the terrified bosses. "There is only a new order. And I am not surrendering a single inch of my territory. If you want my ports, you will have to bleed for them."
