Chapter 8 - THE COMMISSION ARRIVES
The morning sun rose through a thick blanket of gray sea mist.
Black limousines began to crawl up the winding driveway of the North Shore estate.
Ten o'clock arrived with the solemnity of a funeral.
Armed guards from five different syndicates lined the gravel courtyard.
Men with graying hair and custom double-breasted suits stepped through the front doors.
Don Cavallo.
Short, thick-necked, with eyes like dull pennies.
Don Bernardo Moretti.
Dante’s seventy-year-old uncle, leaning heavily on an ebony cane with a silver lion’s head.
And Luca Moretti.
Handsome.
Charismatic.
Wearing a bespoke Italian suit with a white silk handkerchief in his pocket.
The groom whose wedding had ended in blood less than thirty-six hours ago.
Luca smiled at the household staff, greeting them by name as if he already owned the estate.
The grand salon was prepared like a courtroom.
Heavy velvet draperies were pulled back, revealing the gray waters of the Atlantic beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass.
In the center of the room sat five high-backed leather chairs for the Commission.
Opposite them stood Dante Moretti, alone.
He wore an unbuttoned midnight-blue suit, his hands resting easily in his pockets.
He looked completely relaxed, as if hosting an afternoon card game.
Behind him, in the corner near the terrace doors, stood the nine-foot Steinway grand piano.
Its white polished lid was raised.
Don Bernardo took the center seat, resting both hands on his silver cane.
“Dante,” the old man rumbled, his voice like grinding millstones.
“We did not come for hospitality.”
“I know what you came for, Uncle,” Dante replied calmly.
“You came to discuss the gunfire at Luca’s wedding.”
“And the instability of your leadership,” Cavallo interrupted, leaning forward with a snarl.
“Your docks are leaking, Moretti.”
“Subsonic rounds on the dance floor.”
“Valet vehicles ambushed on Storrow Drive.”
“The streets are talking.”
“They say the Don of Boston is distracted by a defective child.”
The word hung in the air like poison.
Defective.
Dante’s left hand twitched once in his pocket.
The jaw muscle worked against his cheek.
Marco, standing by the double doors, subtly shifted his hand toward his concealed holster.
Dante raised two fingers, checking his men with a silent command.
“My son is not defective, Cavallo.”
“He is mute, Dante,” Luca said smoothly, stepping forward from the side table.
His voice was full of manufactured sorrow.
“We all mourn Elena, cousin.”
“We all know the tragedy broke the boy’s mind.”
Luca turned to the Commission, spreading his hands in an appeal to reason.
“A syndicate cannot be governed by sentimentality.”
“The waterfront requires strength.”
“If the federal authorities sense weakness in the succession, the port leases will be revoked by autumn.”
Don Bernardo nodded slowly, his ancient eyes heavy with regret.
“Luca speaks the truth, Dante.”
“The Commission has voted.”
“You have seventy-two hours to transfer the commercial trusts to Luca’s name.”
“Leo will be placed under the guardianship of the Saint Moritz Medical Board.”
A heavy silence descended upon the salon.
Cavallo grinned, his gold teeth catching the gray daylight.
Luca bowed his head, pretending to shoulder a terrible burden.
“I do this for the family, Dante,” Luca murmured.
“Only for the family.”
Dante did not raise his voice.
He did not draw a gun.
He turned toward the grand double doors leading to the south gallery.
“Before we sign the transfer, Uncle,” Dante said, “there is someone who wishes to present his defense.”
The doors opened.
Clara Bennett walked into the room.
She wore a simple, tailored navy dress, her dark hair pinned back with modest elegance.
And holding her right hand, dressed in a neat black suit with a soft blue silk pocket square, was Leo.
The boy did not have his headphones.
His face was pale, his shoulders hunched, but his fingers were wrapped firmly around Clara’s.
Cavallo scoffed.
“What is this circus?”
“Sit down, Cavallo,” Don Bernardo snapped, his eyes fixed on his great-nephew.
Clara led Leo across the vast expanse of parquet floor.
She did not look at the gangsters.
She did not look at the guns bulging beneath their jackets.
She looked only at the white grand piano.
“One, two, pause,” Clara whispered under her breath, matching Leo’s steps.
Leo kept his eyes on the floorboards, counting with her.
They reached the piano bench.
Clara sat on the left side, leaving the treble keys open for the boy.
She looked up at Dante.
Dante nodded once.
A father’s absolute trust, laid bare before his executioners.
Clara placed her hands on the polished ivory.
She pressed the pedal.
The opening chord of Dormi, O Bambino resonated through the vaulted room.
Soft.
Haunting.
A melody that had not been heard in this house for three long years.
May you like
Luca Moretti’s smile died instantly.
The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a drowned corpse.
