Chapter 11 - THE SUMMIT OF WOLVES
The Plaza Hotel in Manhattan stood like an ancient palace of white marble and gold leaf against the autumn sky.
At 11:30 AM, the private Grand Ballroom was sealed off by three layers of private security.
Eighty armed bodyguards in tailored dark suits patrolled the perimeter corridors with submachine guns concealed beneath their jackets.
Inside, beneath crystal chandeliers the size of small automobiles, sat the Grand Council of the American Syndicate.
Five long mahogany tables formed an open square around a central marble podium.
At the tables sat the heads of the Five Families: the Falcones of New York, the Morettis of Philadelphia, the Lucchese family of Chicago, and the Marinos of Florida.
At the central head table sat Salvatore Russo.
He wore an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his silver hair slicked back, sipping ice water from a crystal tumbler.
Beside him sat Victoria.
She was dressed in a dramatic, high-necked black silk mourning dress.
A black lace veil covered her face, but she had carefully arranged it so the council bosses could see her pale, tear-streaked cheeks.
She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered lace handkerchief.
“Gentlemen of the Commission,” Salvatore Russo began, his voice echoing smoothly through the cavernous ballroom.
“We are gathered here on a tragic day.”
He gestured with theatrical grief toward Victoria.
“Damian Costello’s paranoia has finally consumed him.”
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crime bosses.
“Three nights ago,” Russo continued, stepping up to the podium,
“Damian ordered the destruction of his own coastal estate in Massachusetts to cover up his financial embezzlement from the family trust.”
Victoria let out a soft, rehearsed sob into her handkerchief.
“When his brave wife tried to rescue their six-month-old sons,” Russo’s voice rose with righteous indignation,
“Damian locked the nursery from the outside. He allowed his own flesh and blood to burn alive in their cribs.”
Don Falcone, an eighty-year-old mobster with eyes like flint, leaned forward, slamming his heavy fist onto the table.
“Is this true, Victoria?” Falcone demanded, his gravelly voice filled with disgust.
Victoria stood up, trembling with theatrical frailty.
“It is true, Don Falcone,” Victoria wept, her voice carrying through the silent hall.
“Damian said the boys were weak. He said he would not leave his empire to children who cried in the night.”
She dropped to her knees before the council table.
“I beg the Commission for justice! Strip Damian Costello of his territory and sanction his execution!”
Salvatore Russo smiled—a tiny, predatory curve of his thin lips.
“Under Article Nine of the Syndicate Charter,” Russo announced, raising his hand,
“I move that Damian Costello be stripped of his title, his assets liquidated, and a bounty of ten million dollars be placed on his head.”
“Do I have a second?”
Don Lucchese raised his pen.
Before the Chicago boss could speak, the massive ten-foot bronze double doors of the ballroom blew inward with a concussive, deafening crash.
The heavy oak frames splintered into jagged kindling.
Four of Russo’s guards standing near the entrance were thrown across the polished marble floor.
Gasps of shock erupted from the bosses.
Bodyguards scrambled for their weapons, drawing pistols from their holsters.
Through the drifting smoke and pulverized plaster stepped Damian Costello.
He wore a bespoke midnight-black three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders like combat armor.
His tie was straight.
His shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
He carried no visible weapon.
He walked with the calm, terrifying stride of an emperor entering a conquered province.
Behind him walked six of his most lethal enforcers, led by Vito and a bandaged, grim-faced Marco carrying heavy assault shotguns.
And walking at Damian’s side, her head held high, was Clara Hayes.
She was unrecognizable from the soot-stained maid on the beach.
She wore a tailored emerald-green silk dress that fell gracefully to her knees.
Her dark hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, exposing the delicate, unyielding line of her jaw.
Her brown eyes were steady, fearless, and clear as diamonds.
In her arms, dressed in pristine white cashmere layettes, were Oliver and Owen.
Both boys were awake, looking around the grand ballroom with wide, curious eyes.
The silence that fell over the room was absolute.
You could hear a pin drop onto the carpet forty yards away.
Don Falcone’s jaw dropped.
Don Lucchese’s pen fell from his fingers, rolling across the mahogany table.
Victoria froze on the floor.
Her face turned the color of curdled chalk.
The lace handkerchief slipped from her trembling fingers.
“The... the boys...” Victoria choked out, her voice barely a whisper.
Damian walked down the center aisle between the council tables.
Every step echoed with the finality of a funeral drum.
He stopped three paces from the central podium, looking straight at Salvatore Russo.
“You were saying, Salvatore?” Damian’s voice was quiet.
May you like
It was smooth as twenty-year-old bourbon, and cold as a winter grave.
“Tell the Commission more about how I burned my sons alive.”
