Chapter 12 - The Council of Wolves
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered beneath crystal chandeliers that had witnessed a century of gilded corruption.
Massive velvet curtains shut out the gray November dawn creeping over Central Park.
Around an enormous mahogany conference table sat the heads of New York's oldest and most ruthless criminal organizations.
Don Falcone of Queens sat at the far end, his aged fingers resting on an ivory walking stick.
The Lucchese brothers whispered among themselves in hushed, anxious Italian near the grand fireplace.
Capos from Staten Island, the Bronx, and New Jersey adjusted their tailored lapels, eyeing the heavily armed guards standing along the walls.
Every guard in the room was dressed in black tactical wool, wearing the silver Moretti pins on their collars.
They were Salvatore Moretti’s private enforcers, their submachine guns concealed beneath expensive cashmere overcoats.
At the head of the long table, Salvatore Moretti sat in the velvet throne traditionally reserved for the Don of the Moretti syndicate.
He was dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue three-piece suit, his silver hair impeccably combed back.
A crystal tumbler of twenty-year-old scotch sat untouched beside his manicured hands.
He dabbed at the corners of his eyes with an embroidered linen handkerchief, putting on an exquisite performance of patriarchal grief.
"Brothers of the commission," Salvatore began, his deep, gravelly voice carrying across the silent, echoing ballroom.
"We gather under the darkest shadow that has ever fallen across our shared city."
The council members looked up, their expressions guarded, calculating, and cold.
"Last night, our beloved nephew Dominic went to Pier Fourteen to oversee a routine logistical transfer," Salvatore continued, shaking his head slowly.
"He was ambushed by heavy tactical mercenaries using military-grade explosive devices."
"Four of our most dedicated soldiers were slaughtered in the mud."
"Dominic’s lead transport was completely destroyed."
A murmur of shock rippled through the assembled crime bosses.
"Is Dominic dead?" Don Falcone asked, his gravelly voice cutting through the whispers like iron.
Salvatore lowered his head, pressing his hand against his heart.
"He has not returned to our command center."
"We recovered his burned vehicle and found the docks swimming in blood."
"His personal radio has gone completely dark."
"Worse still," Salvatore’s voice rose with theatrical indignation, "we discovered who betrayed the arrival coordinates."
Salvatore reached into his breast pocket and tossed a heavy silver medallion onto the center of the mahogany table.
The silver coin slid across the polished wood, stopping directly in front of Don Lucchese.
The lion beneath an iron crown gleamed under the chandeliers.
"Lorenzo Castiglione," Falcone muttered, picking up the heavy medallion and turning it over in his liver-spotted palm.
"Lorenzo broke the truce," Salvatore declared, slamming his fist onto the table with righteous fury.
"He orchestrated the ambush using intelligence fed to him directly from inside Dominic’s own home."
"Dominic’s wife, Madeline, was intercepted leaving the Manhattan tower minutes after the explosion occurred."
"She was carrying a private burner phone linked directly to Castiglione’s headquarters in Red Hook."
"She was Lorenzo’s spy inside our family for three years."
The ballroom exploded into angry shouts and chaotic debate.
"Madeline was an accountant's daughter!" one capo shouted.
"How could a girl like that compromise an entire tactical division?"
"She compromised Dominic's heart," Salvatore countered smoothly, leaning forward over the table.
"She whispered poison in his ear while selling our supply routes to Brooklyn."
"And when Dominic confronted her last night, she gave the green light for the dockyard massacre."
"What happened to the girl?" Falcone asked, narrowing his cloudy eyes.
"She fled with Castiglione’s hit squad," Salvatore lied without blinking.
"My men tracked them to the northern borders, but they opened fire on our patrols."
"Dominic is either dead in a ditch or held hostage in a Brooklyn cellar."
"And my poor sister-in-law, Donna Elena, suffered another severe cardiac stroke when she heard the news in Westchester."
"She is currently in critical condition, completely unable to communicate or manage the family estate."
Salvatore stood up, adjusting his cuffs with majestic authority.
"The Moretti syndicate cannot stand leaderless for even a single hour."
"The federal authorities are already circling Pier Fourteen like vultures."
"The streets of Brooklyn and Manhattan will drown in blood if Castiglione believes we are paralyzed by this tragedy."
"According to the ancient charter of the commission, when a Don falls without a living heir, the elder brother takes the mantle."
Salvatore reached into his leather briefcase and produced a thick stack of legal documents bearing red wax seals.
"I have prepared the emergency succession instruments."
"I ask this council to ratify my ascension as Don of the Moretti syndicate immediately."
"Together, we will declare total, unyielding war on the Castiglione family before the sun reaches its peak."
Don Falcone looked at the documents, then up at Salvatore’s solemn face.
"This is very sudden, Salvatore."
"The bodies at Pier Fourteen aren't even cold."
"If we wait, the city falls to the Castigliones!" Salvatore shouted, his eyes flashing with desperate urgency.
"Do we vote to survive, or do we wait until Lorenzo’s killers kick down these doors?"
Several capos nodded in agreement, swayed by the sheer momentum of Salvatore’s panic.
"All in favor of ratifying Salvatore Moretti as the supreme Don of Manhattan," Salvatore called out, raising his right hand.
Before a single capo could lift a finger, a loud, metallic crash echoed from the main entrance of the ballroom.
The heavy brass handles of the double oak doors rattled violently against their locked frame.
A muffled gunshot popped from the hallway outside, followed by the heavy thud of a body collapsing against the wood.
The ballroom fell dead silent.
Salvatore’s enforcers immediately drew their weapons, forming a defensive perimeter around the table.
"Who is out there?" Salvatore barked, his face tightening with sudden, sharp anxiety.
The heavy brass locks of the grand doors sheared apart with an explosive bang.
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The massive ten-foot doors swung open into the opulent room, crashing against the interior walls.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the cold morning light of the hallway, was a specter returned from the grave.
