Chapter 9 - THE MIDNIGHT COUNCIL
The Great Hall of the Moretti Highland Park estate was a monument to old-world mafia aristocracy.
Massive timber beams spanned the cathedral ceiling forty feet above the polished parquet floor.
A massive limestone fireplace roared with blazing birch logs, casting dancing orange shadows across the oil paintings of long-dead Moretti patriarchs.
Around a twenty-foot mahogany conference table sat fourteen men.
These were the regional capos who controlled the gambling, the construction unions, the narcotics pipelines, and the riverboat casinos across three states.
Every man wore an expensive dark suit.
Every man had two personal armed bodyguards standing against the paneled walls behind him.
At the head of the table sat Salvatore Rossi.
He was seventy-two years old, with immaculate silver hair, tailored silk cuffs, and cold blue eyes that had watched three generations of men die.
Beside him sat two men whom the capos did not recognize.
They were younger, dressed in slim-cut Milanese suits, with dark sunglasses resting on the table before them.
These were the envoys of the Castiglione family from New York.
Salvatore tapped a crystal tumbler of vintage scotch against the mahogany surface.
The room immediately went dead silent.
The capos leaned forward, the tension so thick it felt like static electricity in the dry air.
"Brothers," Salvatore began, his voice deep, gravelly, and heavy with manufactured grief.
"Today is the darkest day in the history of our family."
"Four hours ago, our Don—my godson, Vincent Moretti—was murdered on the streets of downtown Chicago."
Several capos shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy glances.
"The vehicle was struck by an unauthenticated transport unit," Salvatore continued, shaking his head with heavy sorrow.
"Vincent’s body was burned beyond visual recognition before the first fire engine arrived."
"We all loved Vincent," Salvatore said, placing his hand over his heart.
"He was a visionary. He brought this family into the modern digital age."
"But Vincent made one fatal, tragic error."
Salvatore paused, letting the silence stretch to the breaking point.
"He trusted the wrong people."
"He allowed his younger brother, Anthony, to handle our financial trusts."
"And he allowed an outside mercenary, Captain Sarah Cole, to usurp the security command that has protected our fathers for fifty years."
Salvatore leaned forward, resting both forearms on the table.
"Our investigators have confirmed that Anthony Moretti authorized the transport changes this afternoon."
"Anthony was panicking because the federal grand jury was preparing to seize our commercial holdings."
"He believed that by removing Vincent, he could hand our operations to the Department of Justice in exchange for immunity."
A low, angry rumble echoed around the table.
Capo Luciano, an old street boss from South Chicago, slammed his fist onto the wood.
"Where is Anthony now, Salvatore?" Luciano demanded.
"Our units are tracking him toward the border," Salvatore lied smoothly.
"He will be dealt with according to the ancient laws of the family."
Salvatore turned his gaze toward the two Castiglione envoys sitting at his right hand.
"In the meantime, the streets do not sleep."
"Our rivals smell weakness."
"To ensure our survival, I have reached an emergency administrative agreement with our cousins from New York."
"The Castiglione family will provide two hundred combat personnel to reinforce our perimeters."
"In exchange, we will grant them forty percent management oversight of our Great Lakes logistics corridor."
Luciano narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing with suspicion.
"Forty percent? To New York?"
"That is our blood, Salvatore! Vincent would never have allowed the Castigliones to touch the docks!"
Salvatore’s voice turned dangerously sharp.
"Vincent is dead, Luciano!"
"And unless you want the federal marshals kicking down your front door by dawn, you will vote to ratify this emergency succession!"
Salvatore raised his hand, displaying the heavy gold signet ring of the Moretti leadership.
"I move that the council appoint me as acting Don of the Moretti syndicate with full executive powers."
"All in favor—"
Before a single capo could raise his hand, every light in the Great Hall abruptly died.
The roar of the ventilation system ceased instantly.
The heavy hum of the building's transformers collapsed into a dead, absolute silence.
The room was plunged into pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by the dying orange embers of the limestone fireplace.
"What the hell is that?" Luciano shouted, jumping to his feet.
"Security! Get the emergency power on!" Salvatore barked.
The sound of thirty holsters unbuttoning echoed across the mahogany room.
Bodyguards shouted in confusion, clicking on tactical weapon lights that cast panicked, narrow white beams across the timber ceiling.
"Nobody move!" Salvatore commanded.
"Hold your positions around the table!"
Then, the heavy oak double doors at the far end of the Great Hall swung inward with a slow, deliberate groan.
A freezing gust of wind swept into the room, scattering papers across the conference table.
Standing in the doorway, framed against the dark hallway, was a silhouette.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal wool coat.
Beside him stood a woman in full tactical gear, a suppressed submachine gun held at the low-ready position.
And behind them stood Anthony Moretti, holding an open laptop computer.
The weapon lights from six bodyguards converged instantly on the doorway.
The blinding white beams struck the man’s face.
The breath vanished from thirty throats simultaneously.
Capo Luciano stumbled backward, knocking his leather chair over onto the floor.
"Jesus... Mary... Joseph..." Luciano whispered, crossing himself with a shaking hand.
Vincent Moretti stepped forward into the Great Hall.
His polished oxfords clicked with steady, terrifying cadence against the parquet wood.
His eyes were dead, black, and fixed entirely on Salvatore Rossi.
"You called for a vote, Salvatore," Vincent’s voice rolled through the hall like thunder across a midnight sky.
"You forgot to ask for my ballot."
Salvatore froze in his high-backed chair, his face draining of all color until he looked like a corpse in an open casket.
"Vincent...?" Salvatore stammered, his fingers clawing at the armrests.
"It's... it's impossible..."
"A ghost does not bleed on the carpet, old man," Vincent said, stopping ten paces from the foot of the table.
Sarah Cole stepped into the light beside him, her tactical weapon sweeping the bodyguards standing against the perimeter.
"Weapons on the floor," Sarah announced, her voice cutting through the panic like a razor blade.
"Every bodyguard drops their sidearm now, or you will be neutralized before the generators cycle."
None of the guards moved.
They were paralyzed between their terror of Vincent Moretti and their allegiance to Salvatore’s money.
"Kill him!" Salvatore suddenly screamed, leaping from his seat with wild, frothing desperation.
"It's an imposter! Shoot him! Shoot them both!"
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The Castiglione envoys reached inside their jackets.
Before their fingers could touch steel, the darkness shattered into violence.
