Chapter 8 - The Syndicate's Ultimatum
The streets of Chicago always whisper before they scream.
By Friday, the whispers had turned into a deafening roar.
The five major crime families that operated under the Moretti umbrella called for an emergency summit.
They did not invite Vincent, nor did they invite Don Carlo.
They formally requested an audience with Arthur Bennett.
My father, a man who preferred the shadows, finally stepped into the light.
The meeting took place in a neutral, heavily guarded hotel ballroom downtown.
I attended the summit, standing respectfully to the right of my father’s chair.
Julian stood to his left, projecting an aura of quiet, deadly violence.
The capos of the five families sat across from us, sweating nervously in their tailored suits.
These were hardened, brutal men who had built their fortunes through violence and intimidation.
Yet, in the presence of Arthur Bennett, they looked like frightened children.
My father did not yell.
He spoke in a low, gravelly voice that commanded absolute silence in the room.
He reminded them that the Bennett syndicate had provided them with safe harbors and clean logistics for three decades.
He explicitly stated that the treaty was broken the moment Vincent Moretti disrespected his only daughter.
The capos immediately began backpedaling, swearing that they had no part in Vincent’s foolishness.
They threw Vincent under the bus without a second thought.
The eldest capo, a man named Sal, promised that they would remove Vincent from power immediately.
He begged my father to release the blockades so they could feed their families.
My father leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.
He told them that removing Vincent was not enough.
He demanded that the Moretti family forfeit forty percent of their territory to the Bennetts as a tax for their insolence.
He also demanded that Don Carlo permanently step down from his throne and enter forced retirement.
The room gasped, shocked by the sheer magnitude of the demands.
It was a complete neutering of the most famous crime family in the Midwest.
Sal nervously wiped his forehead and asked what would happen if Don Carlo refused the terms.
My brother Julian answered that question.
He looked directly into Sal’s eyes and smiled a cold, terrifying smile.
Julian stated that if they refused, the Bennetts would simply burn the remaining sixty percent to the ground.
There was no negotiation, no middle ground, and no mercy.
The capos looked at each other in terrified agreement.
They nodded in unison, effectively signing the death warrant of the Moretti empire.
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I watched the ink dry on the new syndicate boundaries, feeling a profound sense of closure.
I was no longer just a mafia wife; I was a Bennett architect.
