Chapter 7 - The Council of Wolves
The rain fell in relentless sheets over downtown Seattle, blurring the neon lights of fourth avenue into smeared streaks of red and yellow.
The Rainier Club was an exclusive, century-old brick fortress where the Pacific Northwest’s wealthiest families conducted business behind soundproof mahogany doors.
Tonight, the fourth-floor private library had been booked under an anonymous corporate alias, cleared of all staff, and swept twice for listening devices.
I stepped out of the brass elevator into the dimly lit, wood-paneled hallway, wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal three-piece suit without an overcoat.
Beneath the silk lining of my vest rested my Kimber .45, loaded with custom sub-sonic rounds, its thumb safety disengaged.
Behind me walked Dante, his hands folded loosely in front of his waist, his eyes tracking every shadow along the velvet wallpaper.
Two towering men in tailored dark blue suits stood outside the library doors, their coats bulging slightly under their armpits.
They were Chicago muscle—former tactical officers who had sold their badges for five hundred thousand dollars a year to protect Matteo Russo.
As I approached, the taller man stepped forward, raising both hands in a polite, yet unmistakable request to perform a security pat-down.
I didn't stop walking.
I stepped directly into his personal space, my height matching his, my green eyes fixing on his pupils with such terrifying stillness that the man froze mid-motion.
“If your hands touch my suit, you won't live to see the elevator doors open,” I whispered, my voice completely smooth and devoid of inflection.
The guard’s jaw clenched, his eyes darting to Dante, whose hand had already slipped inside his jacket, fingers curled around a suppressed machine pistol.
For three suffocating seconds, the hallway hung on the razor’s edge of a bloodbath.
Then, a raspy, dry voice called out from inside the library: “Let him through, Marco. Gavin Moretti does not get frisked in his own city.”
The guard stepped back, lowering his hands with reluctant discipline, and opened the heavy oak doors.
The library was massive, lined with thousands of leather-bound historical volumes and illuminated by a roaring stone fireplace.
Seated in a deep wingback leather chair before the fire was Matteo Russo.
He was seventy-two years old, with slicked-back silver hair, razor-sharp cheekbones, and dark, hooded eyes that had overseen forty years of mob executions.
He was sipping a glass of Pellegrino water, an unlit Cuban cigar resting between two fingers adorned with heavy gold signet rings.
Standing behind his chair was a man I recognized instantly: Leo Falcone, the ruthless underboss of the Chicago waterfront operations.
“Gavin,” Matteo greeted me with a thin, brittle smile that never reached his dead eyes.
“It’s been far too long. Your father, God rest his soul, would be proud to see how tall you stand in this town.”
“Matteo,” I replied evenly, walking across the Persian carpet and pulling out the heavy leather chair opposite him without waiting for an invitation.
Dante positioned himself by the heavy mahogany bookshelf near the entrance, cutting off Falcone’s line of sight to my rear.
“You asked for this sit-down, Matteo,” I said, resting my hands flat on the polished armrests.
“Let’s not waste time with stories about my father. We both know why you’re in Seattle on Christmas week.”
Matteo chuckled, a dry, rattling cough that shook his thin frame before he set his water glass down on the marble coaster.
“You always were direct, Gavin. Just like your old man. Never had much patience for the social dance.”
He leaned forward, his hooded eyes narrowing like a hawk fixing upon prey.
“A yacht burned to the water last night off Bainbridge Island. Ten bodies, including Lucian and Julian Vance.”
“Julian’s neck was snapped like a twig, Gavin. That’s your signature. You always did like to use your hands when you got angry.”
I didn't blink. I didn't deny it. In our world, an apology is a confession, and an explanation is an admission of weakness.
“Lucian Vance was a thief who violated his exile,” I stated, my tone as flat as cold slate.
“Julian Vance crossed a line that results in execution under every code written from New York to Sicily.”
“They are fish food in Puget Sound. Their accounts are frozen, and their crews are disbanded.”
“If Chicago has an issue with cleaning out rotten wood, you should have voiced it two years ago when I spared them.”
Matteo’s smile faded, his thin lips setting into a hard, unforgiving line.
“We don't give a damn about the Vance brothers, Gavin. They were sloppy, greedy, and loud.”
“What we care about is the rumors coming out of Swedish Medical Center and your downtown office.”
“Word is, you’re liquidating your holdings. Word is, you’re transferring your port berths into a blind, non-profit maritime foundation.”
“And the most interesting rumor of all…” Matteo paused, his eyes gleaming with malicious intelligence, “…is that Gavin Moretti has suddenly grown a conscience because his pretty ex-wife popped out a green-eyed bastard.”
The air in the room instantly turned to liquid nitrogen.
Behind Matteo, Leo Falcone shifted his weight, anticipating an immediate explosion.
Dante took a half-step forward, the silence in the library tightening like a piano wire pulled to the breaking point.
I did not shout. I did not draw my weapon.
I leaned forward slowly, resting my elbows on my knees, bringing my face less than three feet from Matteo’s wrinkled visage.
“Choose your next words with absolute precision, Matteo,” I whispered, my voice dropping so low it was almost drowned out by the crackling logs in the fireplace.
“Because if you utter that word in reference to my son again, this room will become your mausoleum, and Chicago will be burying an empty casket.”
Matteo stared into my emerald eyes, and for a fraction of a second, the ancient mobster saw the absolute abyss staring back at him.
He realized, with sudden, chilling clarity, that I wasn't bluffing.
I was not a businessman protecting quarterly profits; I was a father willing to burn down the entire world, including myself, to protect his child.
Matteo slowly raised one hand, signaling Leo Falcone to stand down.
“Easy, Gavin,” Matteo murmured, his tone losing a fraction of its arrogant edge.
“Nobody is looking to insult your blood. We respect family. Always have.”
“Then respect this,” I said, reaching into my inner jacket pocket with deliberate slowness and pulling out a heavy, notarized legal document bound in black leather.
I tossed it onto the low table between us, where it landed with a dull, authoritative thud.
“What is this?” Matteo asked, eyeing the document suspiciously.
“That is the deed to thirty-five percent of the commercial berths at Terminal Eighteen,” I explained coldly.
“It gives the Chicago syndicate direct, unobstructed maritime passage through the Puget Sound corridor without paying Moretti tolls.”
“The legal titles are clean, backed by three tier-one financial institutions, and signed over to your shell corporations in Delaware.”
“In exchange, the Moretti family withdraws entirely from all interstate agreements.”
“The remaining port shares will be managed by an independent civilian board that answers to state maritime authorities.”
Matteo picked up the heavy document, his experienced eyes scanning the complex legal clauses, the corporate seals, and the estimated revenue figures.
His eyebrows rose slightly.
Thirty-five percent of Terminal Eighteen was worth over three hundred million dollars in annual logistics value—a king’s ransom handed over on a silver platter.
“This is an extraordinary gift, Gavin,” Matteo murmured, looking up from the pages.
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch is simple,” I replied, rising to my feet and towering over the old man like a storm cloud.
“My name is off the board. My wife’s name is off the board. My son’s name does not exist in any file, database, or ledger owned by the five families.”
“If a single associate from Chicago, New York, or California steps foot within fifty miles of Bellevue or Sammamish, this deal is null and void.”
“And the next time I visit Chicago, I won't be bringing contracts. I will be bringing gasoline.”
Matteo leaned back in his wingback chair, tapping the leather document against his knee, contemplating the sheer finality of my proposal.
“You’re walking away from a crown that took three generations of Morettis to forge,” Matteo said, a mixture of disbelief and genuine bewilderment in his voice.
“All for a woman who divorced you and an infant who won't even remember your sacrifices?”
“My father died in an armored limousine on Fourth Avenue with seven bullets in his chest, Matteo,” I said, adjusting the cuffs of my suit.
“He died surrounded by guards, money, and territory, yet he died completely alone in a puddle of his own blood.”
“I am not dying in a limousine.”
“I am going home to put my son to sleep.”
Matteo stared at me for a long, silent minute, then slowly nodded his head, signing his initials onto the transfer acknowledgment with a gold fountain pen.
“The commission accepts the terms, Gavin,” Matteo said quietly.
“Terminal Eighteen is ours. Your retirement is recognized.”
“You are a civilian now, Mr. Moretti. May God have mercy on your soul if you ever try to step back across that line.”
“You won't have to worry about me, Matteo,” I said, turning on my heel and walking toward the oak doors without looking back.
“Just make sure your people remember the boundary.”
I stepped out into the rainy night air outside the Rainier Club, breathing in the cold Pacific mist, feeling the massive, crushing weight of twelve years of violence lifting off my spine.
The deal was struck.
May you like
The empire was severed.
I was finally free to be the man Emily needed, or so I believed, until my encrypted phone vibrated against my chest with an emergency priority alert from the fortress.
