Chapter 11 - The Gathering of the Wolves
The boardroom on the forty-second floor of the Grand Venetian Casino was soundproofed, lined with sound-dampening acoustic mahogany panels, and monitored by zero electronic listening devices.
It was the most secure room on the Eastern Seaboard.
Sitting around the oval mahogany table were the heads of the five controlling syndicates of the Atlantic Commission: New York, North Jersey, Baltimore, Scranton, and Atlantic City.
At the head of the table sat Victor Moretti.
Victor was impeccably groomed, wearing a midnight-blue bespoke suit, a white silk pocket square, and the Moretti gold signet ring gleaming under the recessed spotlights.
In front of him rested a bottle of twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch and six crystal tumblers.
"Gentlemen," Victor said, his voice carrying the smooth, cultured cadence of an investment banker.
"I thank you for assembling on such short notice."
The Don of North Jersey, an eighty-year-old veteran named Carmine Luppo, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing on an unlit Cuban cigar.
"This better be worth the drive through the rain, Victor," Luppo rasped.
"You pulled us away from our operations during peak casino hours."
"It is worth the drive, Carmine," Victor replied smoothly, steepling his manicured fingers.
"Tragedy has struck our family once again."
"Early this morning, a propane explosion and structure fire destroyed my brother’s historic estate in the Allegheny Mountains."
"My beloved nephew, Nicholas, was staying at the lodge."
"The local authorities have recovered remains."
A collective murmur of shock and calculated calculation rippled through the older bosses.
None of them truly grieved Nicholas, but an empty throne in Philadelphia meant instability, and instability meant lost revenue.
"Are you certain of this, Victor?" the Baltimore boss asked, narrowing his eyes.
"The dental records are being processed," Victor lied without blinking.
"However, the Moretti syndicate cannot remain headless in these precarious times."
"According to the 1968 Family Charter, in the event of an heir dying without issue, executive authority falls to the eldest surviving brother of the founder."
"I am prepared to assume the seat tonight."
"I am prepared to unfreeze the Founder's Reserve in Zurich and distribute a fifteen-percent stability dividend to every family represented at this table."
Greed glittered in the eyes of the four outside bosses.
Fifteen percent of the legendary Moretti offshore vault amounted to tens of millions of dollars in untraceable bearer bonds.
Luppo reached for his lighter.
"If the boy is truly dead, Victor, the charter is clear," Luppo said.
"We hold a vote."
"We confirm you as Don of Philadelphia."
"All in favor—"
Before Luppo could finish his sentence, the heavy brass-reinforced double doors of the boardroom swung open with an explosive crash.
The two armed security guards Victor had stationed outside were shoved violently into the room, sprawling across the expensive carpet.
Every boss at the table flinched, their hands instinctively reaching inside their jackets.
"Keep your hands on the table, gentlemen," a voice boomed from the threshold.
Nicholas Moretti stepped into the light of the chandelier.
He wore a fresh black tailored suit, his jaw squared, his eyes burning with lethal clarity.
Flanking him were Marco and four heavily armed Philadelphia enforcers carrying automatic shotguns pointed at the ceiling.
Victor’s scotch glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the mahogany table and splashing amber liquid across his crisp linen cuffs.
Victor stood up so violently his chair tipped backward, crashing onto the carpet.
"Nicholas...?" Victor gasped, his face draining of all color until it resembled curdled milk.
"You look like you've seen a ghost, Uncle Victor," Nicholas said, walking slowly down the length of the table with measured, heavy steps.
"Or did you expect me to stay dead in the fire you set on Devil's Ridge?"
"This is a closed commission meeting!" Victor stammered, his eyes darting wildly toward his security detail, who stood paralyzed against the wall under Marco’s shotgun barrels.
"You cannot violate the sanctuary of this room!"
"I am the Don of Philadelphia," Nicholas snarled, slamming his fist onto the table with enough force to crack the wood finish.
"My seat was never vacant."
"And you are a traitor who has been selling out this family since 1999."
"That's a lie!" Victor screamed, his smooth composure disintegrating into panic.
"He’s unhinged! He’s trying to consolidate power through murder!"
Nicholas reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the cassette tapes and the leather ledger, and tossed them into the center of the table right in front of Carmine Luppo.
"Look at the records, Carmine," Nicholas commanded.
"Look at the signatures from Credit Suisse."
"Twenty-five years ago, Victor paid the Castiglione family to stage a kidnapping attempt on a seven-year-old boy."
"My father’s brother traded his own blood to start a war that would put him in power."
Luppo picked up the ledger, adjusted his spectacles, and scanned the pages.
The old boss's face turned dark as a thundercloud.
"These are Antonio’s markings," Luppo muttered, his voice cold with ancient disgust.
"I know Antonio’s handwriting."
"This is authentic."
"It's a forgery!" Victor yelled, his voice cracking into a high pitch.
"My brother was insane!"
"He made up stories to justify exiling his own wife!"
"You cannot condemn me based on the scribblings of a dead man!"
Nicholas turned toward the open doorway.
"Then don't listen to the dead, Victor," Nicholas said softly.
"Listen to the living."
Nicholas raised his hand.
The double doors parted wider.
Through the threshold walked Laura Moretti.
She was dressed in a simple, elegant black wool dress, her silver-streaked hair swept back, her posture regal and upright.
Hanging against her chest, gleaming brightly under the crystal chandelier, was the silver Saint Jude medallion.
The entire boardroom gasped.
Carmine Luppo dropped his cigar onto the table.
The Baltimore boss stood up in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.
"Laura...?" Luppo whispered, his voice trembling with superstitious awe.
"In the flesh, Carmine," Laura said, her voice clear, melodious, and carrying the unshakable authority of a queen returned to her court.
"I did not die in a car accident on Route Nine."
"I was hidden away by my husband to protect our son from that creature standing at the end of the table."
Laura pointed a steady, unyielding finger directly at Victor Moretti.
"Twenty-five years I lived in silence, waiting for the day my son would be strong enough to stand without fear."
May you like
"That day is today."
"And you, Victor, are finished."
