Chapter 10 - THE TRIBUNAL OF KINGS
St. Michael's Cathedral sat in the historic heart of Old Town Chicago.
Built in 1869, its stone spires reached into the gray dawn sky like jagged teeth.
The cathedral was deconsecrated fifty years ago, bought through an anonymous trust fund owned by the Commission.
It was the only place in North America where the seven syndicates met without weapons.
To draw steel or fire inside St. Michael's meant immediate, unconditional extermination of your entire bloodline.
Inside the vaulted nave, twenty-foot stained-glass windows cast red and violet shadows across fifty mahogany pews.
Sitting in the front pews were the rulers of the underworld.
The bosses of New York, Philadelphia, Detroit, Kansas City, and the two factions of Chicago.
In the center of the altar, sitting beneath a massive stone crucifix, was Arbiter Valenti.
He was eighty-two years old, with skin like yellowed parchment and eyes as black as crude oil.
He leaned on a carved silver cane.
Beside the altar, chained to an iron ring in the floor, was Dante Sterling.
Sterling’s face was bruised purple.
His right arm was in a sling, his clothes blood-caked.
The heavy bronze doors at the rear of the cathedral creaked open.
The bosses turned their heads in unison.
Rosalind Voss walked down the center aisle.
She wore a long, tailored black wool coat over her midnight dress.
Her posture was sovereign.
She did not look at the men in the pews.
She did not nod to the Capos who controlled billions of dollars in illegal enterprise.
Walking on her right was Gideon, wearing a fresh three-piece suit, the gold signet ring gleaming under the altar lamps.
Walking on her left was Beckett, his broad shoulders filling the aisle, his eyes tracking every shadow.
Behind them walked Piers, carrying an encrypted aluminum laptop case.
And ten paces behind his sons...
Walked Callum Voss.
Unarmed.
Bandaged.
Head held low.
The murmurs among the bosses moved like a dry wind through grass.
"Look at Callum," whispered Moretti from New York.
"He looks like a condemned man."
"His wife took his teeth," answered Falcone from Philadelphia.
Rosalind stopped ten feet before the altar.
She did not kneel.
She looked Arbiter Valenti directly in his ancient eyes.
"Arbiter," Rosalind said clearly.
Valenti tapped his silver cane once against the marble floor.
The sound rang like a bell through the cavernous nave.
"Rosalind Blackwood," the old man rasped.
He did not use the name Voss.
"Thirty years ago, your father stood in that exact spot to present his three children to this table."
"Today, you stand before us after blood was spilled on your hearth."
Valenti’s dark eyes shifted toward Dante Sterling.
"Dante Sterling claims the Voss family has fallen into chaos."
"He claims Callum Voss allowed an unauthorized civilian into the executive chambers."
"He claims the port contracts are void under Article Nine."
Sterling lifted his head from the floor, spitting blood onto the stone.
"They're fractured!" Sterling shouted hoarsely.
"Callum's mistress had the logistics codes!"
"The family is dead! Chicago needs a real ruler!"
Valenti did not look at Sterling.
He looked back at Rosalind.
"What say you, daughter of Blackwood?"
Rosalind stepped back and placed her hand on Gideon’s shoulder.
"The house of Blackwood does not answer for Callum Voss," Rosalind declared.
"My son speaks for this city."
Gideon stepped forward onto the altar steps.
He looked down at Dante Sterling like a man inspecting an insect on his shoe.
"Piers," Gideon commanded.
Piers opened the aluminum case and connected a wireless transmitter to the cathedral's projection feed.
On the massive whitewashed wall beside the crucifix, a dozen financial documents illuminated in sharp digital clarity.
"Exhibit A," Gideon said, his voice echoing with absolute legal precision.
"Bank wire transfers from Dante Sterling to Commander Briggs of the Illinois State Police."
"Exhibit B: Shipping manifests showing Sterling's syndicate moving uninspected fentanyl through the Calumet corridor."
A collective gasp moved through the pews.
The Commission had banned fentanyl traffic on pain of death ten years ago.
"And Exhibit C," Gideon continued, clicking the remote.
An audio recording played through the cathedral’s acoustic vault.
Sterling’s voice boomed from the speakers:
"Once I wipe out the Voss family at Blackwood Manor, we take the Detroit ports back from Valenti. The old man in New York won't live to see the winter."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Arbiter Valenti’s hand tightened on his silver cane until his knuckles turned ivory.
He slowly turned his ancient head toward Dante Sterling.
Sterling’s face turned the color of ashes.
"Arbiter... wait," Sterling stammered, pulling against his iron chains.
"That's forged! The boy hacked the files!"
Valenti stood up.
He did not need the cane.
His old frame was tall, straight, and terrifying.
"Dante Sterling," Valenti whispered.
"You broke the hearth-truce."
"You brought poison into our shipping lanes."
"And you plotted against the throne of this Commission."
Valenti looked down at Gideon.
"The verdict is rendered," Valenti said.
"The house of Blackwood-Voss holds the executioner's right."
"Take his territory. Take his fleet. Cleanse his bloodline."
Then Valenti turned his gaze toward the back of the group.
May you like
Toward Callum.
"And what of the broken king?" Valenti asked.
