Chapter 7 - THE TRIBUNAL OF FIVE
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The sunrise over the city of Chicago was hidden behind a dense, suffocating layer of charcoal storm clouds.
At ten o'clock that morning, the historic limestone cathedral of Saint Jude in the old Italian district was surrounded by armored vehicles.
Dozens of armed enforcers wearing tailored charcoal coats and tactical headsets stood guard along every arched entryway.
This was not a Sunday mass.
This was an emergency convocation of the Chicago Commission—the five families that controlled the commerce of the Midwest.
Inside the vast, candlelit nave, sixty senior capos, family elders, and district bosses sat along the dark oak pews.
At the center of the altar steps sat the three senior patriarchs: Don Lucchese, Don Falcone, and Don Moretti.
Luca Moretti stood before the high altar, his bespoke three-piece black suit tailored to perfection, radiating cold, absolute authority.
Standing beside him, holding his left hand with quiet, innocent bravery, was nine-year-old Oliver.
Oliver wore his navy sweater with the white star proudly displayed over his crisp white collar.
I stood three steps behind them, wearing an elegant dark wool dress that Luca had personally commissioned from his private boutique that morning.
My hair was gathered in a neat, respectful chignon, and for the first time in my life, I stood in the presence of kings without bowing my head.
On the cold marble floor before the communion rail knelt Salvatore Bellini, flanked by federal marshals and two Moretti enforcers.
Salvatore’s hands were secured with heavy steel handcuffs, his expensive suit disheveled, his silver hair wild with desperation.
Beside him, weeping uncontrollably in standard-issue gray prison sweatpants, was Vanessa Bellini.
“Elders of the Commission,” Luca’s deep, resonant voice boomed through the soaring stone arches.
“Two years ago, my wife, Julianna Moretti, was murdered on Lake Shore Drive.”
“We were told her brakes failed in the rain.”
“We were told she was reckless.”
Luca reached into his breast pocket and tossed a thick leather binder onto the wooden table before Don Falcone.
“Here are the signed confessions from the mechanic who severed the hydraulic brake lines.”
“Here are the satellite coordinates of the black truck that rammed her vehicle into the ravine.”
“And here are the bank records showing six hundred thousand dollars transferred from Vanessa Bellini’s account to Enzo Moretti.”
The entire cathedral erupted into a furious, deafening roar of outrage from the seated capos.
Even in the brutal underworld of the syndicates, the targeted assassination of a boss’s wife and child was an unpardonable sin.
Don Falcone, an eighty-two-year-old patriarch who had governed the northern docks for forty years, stood up slowly.
His ancient, weathered face was twisted in profound, absolute disgust as he looked down at Salvatore Bellini.
“You broke the sacred charter, Salvatore,” Falcone’s raspy voice echoed through the stone rafters.
“You targeted a mother and an heir to steal the southern shipping terminals.”
“You placed your own daughter in Moretti’s house like a diseased parasite to poison an innocent boy’s mind.”
“It was business!” Salvatore screamed from the floor, spitting onto the marble.
“The Morettis were growing weak! Julianna was going to turn federal state’s evidence on the narcotics shipments!”
“Julianna never touched narcotics,” Luca stated coldly, stepping forward until the shadow of his boots swallowed Salvatore’s face.
“She found the ledger showing you were trafficking fentanyl through our container ships without the Commission’s consent.”
“She was bringing that ledger to me on the night you murdered her.”
Don Falcone raised his heavy gold signet ring, signaling for absolute silence.
The cathedral fell into a breathless, terrifying stillness.
“The Bellini name is stripped of all territory, all rank, and all honor in the city of Chicago,” Falcone pronounced with finality.
“Their shipping lines are forfeit to the Moretti family.”
“Their personal properties are seized to establish a trust fund for Oliver Moretti.”
“And Salvatore and Vanessa Bellini are surrendered to the federal government for life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.”
Vanessa shrieked, thrashing against the marshals as they hauled her to her feet.
“Luca! Please! Don’t let them lock me away!” she wailed, her voice bouncing off the stained-glass windows.
Luca did not even turn his head to look at her.
He reached down, his large, warm hand securely taking Oliver’s small fingers.
“Take them away,” Luca commanded.
As the heavy oak doors of the cathedral banged shut behind the disgraced Bellinis, Don Falcone stepped down the altar steps.
The elderly boss stopped in front of Oliver, looking down at the little boy with profound reverence.
He reached out, his frail hand gently tapping the little white star embroidered near Oliver’s collar.
“Your mother was a lioness, little one,” Falcone whispered softly.
“And you carry her heart.”
Then the old Don turned his gaze to me, bowing his head in a gesture of deep, formal respect.
May you like
“Welcome to the high table, Miss Carter.”
“The city thanks you for guarding the light.”
