Chapter 10 - Blood On The Boardroom Table
By noon, the clouds over Lake Michigan had cleared, leaving behind a brilliant, cold October sky of pristine azure.
Inside the grand banquet hall of the Moretti estate, the damage from the previous night had been entirely erased.
The broken champagne glasses had been swept away, the stained carpets replaced with dark walnut runners, and the grand mahogany table reset for twelve men.
Seated around the table were the senior capos of the five allied families of northern Illinois, summoned by emergency courier two hours ago.
They sat in heavy, uneasy silence, smoking dark cigars and sipping mineral water, their bodyguards standing three deep along the back wall.
At the far end of the room, seated on an unvarnished wooden folding chair, sat Salvatore Bellini.
His wrists were cuffed behind his back, his tailored overcoat stripped away, his white shirt stained with sweat and cellar dust.
Beside him sat his daughter, Vanessa, her red silk gown ruined, her makeup smeared into dark streaks across her porcelain cheeks.
She stared down at the floor, refusing to look at the assembled bosses.
The heavy double doors of the hall swung open with a resounding thud.
Luca Moretti walked into the room.
He wore a pristine three-piece charcoal suit, a dark silk tie, and the gold signet ring of Don Roberto Moretti on his right hand.
His face was clean, his dark hair combed, his presence commanding absolute, breathless silence from every man in the room.
Beside him walked Bruno and Bella, their coats brushed clean, their heads held high like two royal guardians of an ancient throne.
I walked behind them, dressed in a tailored navy wool dress that Luca’s personal staff had provided for me earlier that morning.
Behind me, Mateo and Carlo shoved Julian Bellini into the center of the hall.
Julian’s face was swollen, his nose set in crude white tape, his hands bound in steel restraints in front of his chest.
He hit the hardwood floor on his knees with a loud, hollow crack.
A collective murmur of shock rippled through the seated capos.
Frankie “The Bull” Vitucci, the eldest capo from the South Side, leaned forward, his thick eyebrows knitting together.
“Luca,” Frankie said, his gravelly voice filling the cavernous hall.
“What is the meaning of this spectacle?”
“You summoned the entire commission on three hours’ notice.”
“You have Salvatore Bellini in irons, and his children looking like common street felons.”
Luca stopped at the head of the table, his hands resting lightly on the polished wood.
“I called you here to witness the execution of justice under the ancient laws of this family, Frankie,” Luca said, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the room.
Luca pointed a long, steady finger at Julian Bellini on the floor.
“Julian, recite what you told me in the ambulance on the way from Bridgeport.”
Julian swallowed hard, coughing up a small fleck of dried blood onto the floor.
He glanced up at his father, whose eyes were shut in silent agony, then looked around at the grim faces of the twelve capos.
“My father and I... we arranged Roberto’s death,” Julian whispered, his voice trembling so much it barely carried.
“Speak louder, Julian,” Luca said coldly.
“The commission needs to hear every word.”
“We poisoned him!” Julian shouted, tears finally breaking through his battered eyelids.
“My father had a contact at Bellini Agro-Chemical in Cicero import parathion-methyl!”
“Vanessa put twelve drops of the liquid into Roberto’s brandy decanter while Luca was in Montreal last December!”
Vanessa let out a sharp, hysterical sob, covering her face with her cuffed hands.
Julian continued, his voice breaking into ragged gasps.
“Roberto discovered that we were moving synthetic fentanyl through Pier Thirty-Three without commission approval.”
“He was going to shut down our distribution hubs and hand our manifests to the strike force.”
“We had to kill him before he destroyed the Bellini family.”
Julian looked up at the ceiling, shuddering.
“And when Bruno wouldn't leave Roberto’s desk, we took the override key from his collar to steal the ledgers from the floor safe.”
“We locked the dogs up because Bella attacked me when she smelled the parathion on my jacket.”
“We were going to incinerate both of them this morning so no one could ever run a scent match on the chemical residues.”
The banquet hall exploded into furious shouts.
Frankie Vitucci slammed both fists onto the table, standing up so abruptly his water glass overturned.
“You poisoned Roberto Moretti?” Frankie roared, his face turning dark purple with rage.
“Roberto was a brother to all of us for forty years!”
“You violated the sacred blood peace to protect dirty drug shipments?”
Three other capos rose from their seats, their hands moving instinctively toward their jackets, their faces twisted in absolute disgust.
In the world of the Chicago syndicate, assassinating a rival in open conflict was accepted as the cost of business.
Poisoning an elder Don in his own home with agricultural rat poison was an unforgivable, cowardly sacrilege that demanded total annihilation.
Salvatore Bellini lifted his head, his voice cracking into a desperate wail.
“Frankie! Listen to me! It was Julian’s idea! The boy acted without my authorization!”
“Shut your lying mouth, Salvatore!” Frankie spat across the table.
“You sat at Roberto’s funeral and gave the eulogy!”
“You kissed his casket while his blood was still cooling in the ground!”
Luca raised his right hand.
The room instantly fell silent once more.
Luca looked down at the three members of the Bellini family.
“Under Article Nine of the Syndicate Charter, murder of a sitting Don by treachery results in the immediate dissolution of the offending family’s territory,” Luca stated, his voice flat, emotionless, and absolute.
“Effective at noon today, the Bellini family ceases to exist in the city of Chicago.”
“All shipping contracts at Pier Thirty-Three, all real estate holdings in Cicero, and all maritime accounts are forfeited directly to the Moretti family trust.”
Luca looked at Frankie Vitucci.
“Frankie, take custody of Salvatore and Julian.”
“Deliver them to the federal prosecutor on Dearborn Street alongside the toxicology reports, the flash drive, and the Cicero shipping manifests.”
“Let them spend the remainder of their miserable lives in a federal supermax facility in Florence, Colorado, knowing that their empire was destroyed by the very animals they tried to incinerate.”
Frankie nodded grimly.
“And Vanessa?” Frankie asked, gesturing toward the sobbing woman in red.
Luca looked at his former fiancée with eyes that held neither anger nor pity—only absolute, freezing emptiness.
“Vanessa will be stripped of every asset, every trust fund, and every piece of jewelry given to her under the Moretti name,” Luca said.
“She has two hours to pack a single suitcase of clothes and leave this state.”
“If she is ever seen within fifty miles of Chicago again, she will be handled according to syndicate law.”
Mateo and his men stepped forward, hauling the three Bellinis out of the hall as the capos watched with cold, approving eyes.
When the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, Luca turned to face the remaining leaders of Chicago’s underworld.
He reached down, gently resting one hand on Bruno’s gray neck and the other on Bella’s scarred shoulder.
Both dogs looked out at the room, their ears up, their posture regal and unyielding.
Then Luca turned his dark eyes toward me.
“Gentlemen,” Luca said, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
“I want to introduce you to Emma Sullivan.”
Every capo at the table turned to look at me, their expressions shifting from hardened wariness to deep, quiet respect.
“Emma walked into this very room last night carrying my dying father’s dog through a storm when every one of you would have turned your back,” Luca said.
“She stood up to five thousand dollars of dirty cash and looked down the barrel of Julian Bellini’s gun to protect what was right.”
Luca stepped toward me, extending his hand.
I hesitated for a split second, then placed my hand into his broad, warm grip.
He led me to the head of the table, placing me directly beside his own executive chair.
“As of today, Emma Sullivan is the official Executive Director of the Moretti Family Foundation and the primary trustee of our legitimate maritime holdings,” Luca announced.
“Her word carries the weight of my own seal.”
“Whoever honors her, honors the Moretti family.”
“Whoever disrespects her, answers directly to me and my dogs.”
Frankie Vitucci slowly raised his glass of water, his weathered face breaking into a rare, genuine smile.
“To Roberto’s memory,” Frankie toasted, looking straight at me.
“And to the girl who brought his spirit back into this house.”
The other capos raised their glasses in unison, their voices echoing through the grand hall in a solemn chorus of respect.
Beside my feet, Bruno let out a soft, contented sigh and rested his chin against the toe of my shoe, his warm breath soaking through the leather.
Bella pressed her black flank against my leg, her tail wagging slowly against the wood.
May you like
I looked at Luca, whose dark eyes met mine with a warmth and gratitude that made every terror of the past twenty-four hours vanish into nothingness.
The war for Chicago was over.
