Chapter 7 - The Crate with Glasgow Seals
The grand dining room on the ground floor was a cathedral of dark oak, antique crystal chandeliers, and vaulted plaster ceilings.
A thirty-foot table made of solid walnut stretched down the center of the hall, set with sterling silver cutlery and heavy porcelain plates.
Seated around the table were seven men who controlled the illegal flow of billions across the eastern seaboard.
At the far end sat Salvatore "Sal" Russo, a silver-haired patriarch with deep creases carved into his leathery face and cold, reptilian eyes.
Sal wore an immaculate camel-hair coat over his shoulders despite the indoor heating, sipping black espresso with the calm authority of an elder statesman.
Standing behind Sal’s high-backed chair, looking smug and rested, was Dean.
Dean was dressed in an expensive navy suit, his hair slicked back, chatting quietly with two junior lieutenants.
The moment the heavy double doors opened and Adrian walked in, the entire room went silent.
Men who held the power of life and death over city wards instinctively rose to their feet.
"Sit," Adrian said without breaking his stride.
The men sat down in unison, chairs scraping against the hardwood floor.
Then Dean’s eyes drifted to the figure walking behind Adrian, and his smirk evaporated into thin air.
His jaw dropped slightly, his eyes bulging as he took in the green silk dress, the styled brown hair, and the calm, unblinking stare I directed right into his face.
His skin flushed a deep, mottled red, the scar across his eyebrow twitching with sheer disbelief.
Three nights ago, he had watched me crawl on the kitchen floor amidst broken soup bowls.
Now, I was standing in the sanctum sanctorum of the high council, holding Adrian Moretti’s private accounts dossier.
Sal Russo noticed his nephew’s sudden rigidity and glanced up, his old eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed me.
"Adrian," Sal began in a gravelly, grandfatherly tone, buttering a piece of toast.
"You're late for the morning briefing."
"And I see you brought domestic staff into the boardroom."
"Have the household standards dropped, or are you short on couriers?"
Adrian pulled out the master chair at the head of the table and sat down, leaning back comfortably.
I immediately took my position two paces behind his right shoulder, resting my hands neatly over the dossier.
"Her name is Claire Bennett," Adrian said, his voice ringing through the vast chamber.
"She is my new executive liaison for the Queens waterfront logistics."
"Any document bearing her signature carries the exact weight of my own seal."
A ripple of quiet, stunned murmurs passed around the table.
Dean gripped the back of Sal’s chair so tightly his knuckles turned gray.
Sal slowly laid down his butter knife, his reptilian eyes locking onto Adrian.
"A girl from the housekeeping roster?"
"Adrian, your father would turn in his grave if he saw you elevating outsiders without consulting the family council."
"My father died ten years ago, Sal," Adrian replied smoothly, meeting the old man's stare without flinching.
"And I run this empire with facts, not family sentiment."
Before Sal could reply, the service door near the pantry swung open.
Two delivery couriers in gray transport jackets entered, wheeling a heavy wooden handcart carrying a reinforced oak crate.
Stenciled on the raw pine wood were the black customs stamps of the Port of New York, accompanied by red wax seals reading The Macallan Distillery — Glasgow, 1952.
Dean’s posture instantly straightened.
A flash of nervous, predatory excitement lit up his eyes, though he fought desperately to mask it under a calm expression.
"Ah," Sal said, smiling warmly and gesturing toward the cart.
"Right on schedule."
"The Glasgow shipment."
"Dean spent six weeks tracking down this batch for your thirty-seventh birthday next week, Adrian."
"Bottled before our fathers even took over Little Italy."
Dean stepped forward, clearing his throat, his chest puffing out with false pride.
"Cost a small fortune to get through customs without opening the outer barrels, boss," Dean said, looking directly at Adrian while carefully avoiding my gaze.
"Only twelve bottles exist in North America."
"I thought we ought to toast to the new Brooklyn expansion right now, with the council gathered."
Adrian stared at the wooden crate, his expression entirely unreadable.
He looked at the pristine wax seals, then at Dean's slightly sweaty forehead.
"A thoughtful gesture, Dean," Adrian murmured.
"A very thoughtful gesture indeed."
May you like
Adrian raised his right hand, snapping his fingers once.
"Bring the crate to the table."
