Chapter 9 - The Bellini Syndicate’s Ultimatums
The crypt beneath St. Michael’s Cathedral in Cicero was constructed of ancient limestone, lit only by iron torches mounted along damp stone pillars. For nearly a century, this underground sanctuary had served as the neutral ground where Chicago's underworld arbitrated disputes that could not be settled with words.
When Luca and I walked down the stone steps, surrounded by four of our highest-ranking bodyguards, the room fell dead silent.
Sitting around an ancient, round oak table were the elder Dons of the Commission: Don Falcone, an eighty-year-old patriarch with silver hair; Don Marzio, a sharp-eyed weapons broker; and Don Lombardi, who controlled the city's political machinery.
And across the table sat Don Vincent Bellini.
Vincent was sixty-five, with slicked-back white hair, wearing a five-thousand-dollar tailored pinstripe suit. Sitting directly behind him was his daughter, Vanessa. She had changed into an emerald silk dress, her face masked in cold, haughty defiance.
When Vanessa saw me walking at Luca’s side—wearing Luca’s heavy overcoat and holding the canvas bag containing the navy child's coat—her eyes flashed with venomous hatred.
“Luca,” Don Falcone spoke, his voice rumbling through the crypt. “You have called an Emergency Blood Tribunal against your future father-in-law. You have broken dinner with your betrothed and shot seven Bellini men across the city tonight. Explain yourself before we declare you rogue.”
Vincent Bellini smiled smoothly, leaning forward with his hands clasped over a gold-headed cane.
“He has lost his mind, Falcone,” Vincent said sorrowfully. “Luca has allowed the grief of his father’s passing and the delusions of a senile tailor to poison his mind. He stole bank assets, assaulted my daughter with false accusations, and now brings a common maid to a council of Dons. He is unfit to lead the Moretti family.”
Vanessa spoke up, her voice dripping with venom. “He assaulted my honor in front of forty high-society guests! All over a piece of trash wool that belonged in the incinerator!”
The Dons murmured among themselves, their expressions turning stern.
Luca stood tall, his hands resting calmly atop the steel lockbox on the table.
“Are you finished, Vincent?” Luca asked quietly.
Vincent’s smile tightened. “We are offering you an ultimatum, boy. Hand over that box. Step down from the harbor commission for five years. Marry Vanessa by Sunday, and we will forget the blood you spilled tonight.”
Luca let out a cold, sharp laugh that echoed off the stone vaulting.
“You always were greedy, Vincent,” Luca said. “Thirty years ago, you poisoned my father because he wouldn't let you sell narcotics through the public docks. Tonight, you tried to murder me and an eighty-one-year-old tailor to bury your cowardice.”
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Vincent slammed his cane against the stone floor. “Lies! Michael Moretti died of heart failure! He was a traitor who nearly brought federal agents down upon us all!”
“Let Michael speak for himself,” Luca replied.
