Chapter 8 - The Commission’s Feast and The Scent of Rosemary
The Grand Harbor Hotel sat on the rocky bluffs overlooking the Atlantic shipping lanes, an imposing neoclassical fortress of gray granite and reinforced glass that had hosted the high councils of the underworld for over half a century.
Under the ancient rules of the Commission, the hotel was designated as neutral ground.
No weapons were permitted inside the grand banquet hall.
No personal bodyguards could stand within fifteen paces of the main mahogany dining table.
Disputes between syndicates were settled over multi-course feasts where territory, kickbacks, and logistics corridors were traded like corporate shares.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the private dining salon was filled with the powerful dons of the Five Families, their high-ranking capos, and legal consiglieres.
At the center of the room sat Dominic Rossy, dressed in a custom charcoal pinstripe suit, holding a crystal glass of champagne and laughing with the Don of the Northern Territory.
Dominic exuded the radiant, arrogant confidence of a man who believed the world was already his.
He had received word at dawn that Mickey Vane's warehouse on Dock Street had burned to the ground overnight in an apparent gangland dispute.
He assumed Mickey had botch-cleared the job, eliminated the girl, and tied off the loose ends.
More importantly, Dominic believed Vincent was currently confined to his bed in the final stages of starvation, incapable of leaving the estate to attend the mandatory council.
The heavy brass double doors of the banquet hall swung open.
The laughter and conversation in the room died down instantly, suffocated by an unnatural silence that rippled across the marble floor.
Vincent Rossy walked into the room.
He did not walk with the hesitant, shuffling gait of an invalid.
He walked with the broad-shouldered, predatory grace of a conqueror, his posture straight, his head held high, his tailored three-piece navy suit fitting his recovering frame with sharp elegance.
Behind him walked Norah Bennett.
She wore a simple, elegant high-necked black dress that Enzo had procured that morning, her auburn hair pulled back into a neat chignon, her face pale but completely composed.
She carried a polished walnut case secured with brass hinges.
Dominic’s champagne glass froze halfway to his lips.
The color drained from Dominic's face so rapidly that his skin resembled wet plaster, his eyes bulging in sheer, disbelieving horror as Vincent advanced directly toward the head of the table.
"Vincent," the elderly Don Falcone murmured from his seat, his rheumy eyes widening in genuine astonishment.
"The street rumors whispered that you were on your deathbed receiving the final sacraments."
Vincent took his place at the head of the mahogany table, pulling out the carved armchair and resting his hands flat upon the polished wood.
"Rumors in this city are cheap, Don Falcone," Vincent said, his deep baritone cutting through the vast salon like an iron bell.
"And usually paid for by ambitious cowards who lack the stomach to finish what they start."
Vincent glanced down the table, his dark eyes locking squarely onto Dominic, who was gripping his crystal glass so hard that the stem threatened to snap.
"My cousin Dominic was kind enough to inform the Commission that I was incapacitated," Vincent continued smoothly, leaning forward.
"He assumed my absence would permit him to carve up the South Side logistics terminals and hand them over to his associates."
Dominic swallowed hard, forcing a tight, nervous chuckle as he attempted to regain his composure before the watching syndicate leaders.
"Vincent, you misunderstand," Dominic stammered, his voice higher than usual.
"We were merely preparing contingency protocols to protect family assets during your... prolonged health crisis. We are all relieved to see you on your feet."
"Are you relieved, Dominic?" Vincent asked softly.
Vincent extended his hand toward Norah without looking back.
"Miss Bennett, please open the case."
Norah stepped forward, her movements deliberate and calm despite the heavy presence of twenty armed syndicate bosses staring directly at her.
She set the walnut case on the table, unlatched the brass fittings, and lifted the lid.
Inside rested two items.
The first was a clear glass vial containing a colorless, tasteless liquid—the exact synthetic heavy-metal solution Mickey Vane had intended to slip into Vincent's food.
The second was a micro-cassette recorder retrieved from Dominic's private safe during Enzo's morning sweep of his waterfront penthouse.
Vincent picked up the glass vial and rolled it between his fingers, holding it up so the crystal chandeliers caught the clear liquid.
"Six months ago, a coward poisoned my espresso with this exact compound," Vincent announced to the silent room.
"It corroded my organs. It destroyed my nervous system. It nearly stole my life. And last night, behind the cold storage plant on Dock Street, Mickey Vane surrendered this second vial before he met his end."
A collective murmur of shock rippled through the gathered dons.
Under underworld law, poisoning was considered the ultimate betrayal—a weapon of treachery that bypassed the honorable rules of combat and invited immediate, non-negotiable execution.
"Mickey Vane did not act alone," Vincent continued, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute monotone.
"He acted on the orders of a man who financed illegal debts, manipulated innocent civilians, and plotted to murder his own blood to usurp this seat."
Vincent pressed the play button on the cassette recorder.
Dominic’s recorded voice echoed through the banquet hall with horrifying clarity:
“Let the debt balloon to fifty grand. Once the girl is in the house, give her the vial. Vincent drinks the soup, he dies of natural organ failure, and the waterfront belongs to us. No bullets. No Commission inquiries.”
Dominic leaped to his feet, knocking his armchair backward onto the marble floor with a violent crash.
"It's a fabrication!" Dominic screamed, his eyes darting frantically toward the exits, only to find Enzo and four Rossy lieutenants already blocking the heavy doors.
"The girl is a liar! She’s an outsider from the gutter trying to save her degenerate brother!"
Vincent stood up slowly from his seat, towering over the table.
"Miss Bennett did not fabricate your voice, Dominic," Vincent said.
"Nor did she fabricate the signed promissory notes bearing your personal front company's seal found in Mickey Vane's safe."
Vincent looked down the table at Don Falcone and the other syndicate leaders.
"Commission rules are absolute regarding fratricide and unprovoked treachery. What is the judgment of the table?"
Don Falcone looked at Dominic with utter disgust, slowly turning his thumb downward onto the table.
One by one, every Don at the table followed suit, their thumbs pressing flat against the mahogany in unanimous condemnation.
Dominic backed away toward the wall, his hands clawing at his collar as two armed guards closed in on his flanks.
"Vincent, please!" Dominic begged, his arrogance completely evaporating into pathetic, sniveling terror.
"We're blood! Our fathers built this city together! You can't do this!"
Vincent did not blink.
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"Blood washed out of linen, Dominic," Vincent whispered, quoting the cold family proverb that had opened their war.
"Take him to the harbor cells. Let him contemplate his ambition until the tide comes in."
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