Chapter 11 - The Gathering of the Wolves
The morning sun broke through the autumn fog like a dull blade scraping against cold steel.
A fleet of heavy black luxury sedans climbed the winding asphalt road of the Bedford estate.
Armored vehicles carrying the representatives of the Genovese, Gambino, and Lucchese families passed through the iron gates under the unblinking watch of Gabriel’s snipers.
Every man who stepped out onto the gravel driveway wore a five-thousand-dollar overcoat and carried thirty years of federal surveillance records.
They were older men with silver hair, crooked noses, and cold eyes that had watched the city bleed for half a century.
Inside the grand ballroom, the crystal chandeliers had been dimmed to a somber, cathedral-like glow.
A long, twenty-seat conference table of polished dark mahogany dominated the parquet floor.
Gabriel stood at the head of the chamber, dressed in a tailored midnight-blue three-piece suit, his hands clasped behind his back.
His jaw was set in granite, his slate eyes tracking every guest who crossed the threshold.
I stood three paces behind the high-backed leather chair reserved for the Don.
My uniform was gone.
Gabriel had provided a simple, elegant high-collared black dress that felt heavier than armor.
My hair was pulled back into a tight chignon, revealing the bruises along my jaw and the cold resolve in my gaze.
Vincent Moretti was the last to arrive.
He entered not like a subordinate attending a council, but like a conqueror entering a captured capital.
He wore a cream-colored double-breasted suit, his gold chain gleaming against his silk shirt, flanked by six armed captains whose loyalty he had bought with dock kickbacks.
A mocking, victorious grin was plastered across Vincent’s face as he walked straight toward the head of the table.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Vincent announced, his voice booming against the vaulted ceiling.
He pulled out the leather armchair directly to the right of the Don’s seat and sat down, draping one leg insolently over the armrest.
The other family heads took their seats in heavy, expectant silence, their bodyguards standing along the mirrored walls like statues.
Don Carmine Lucchese, a withered seventy-year-old patriarch with a glass eye, leaned forward on his elbows.
“We were told Salvatore was in no condition to leave his bedroom, Gabriel,” Carmine said, his voice gravelly and raspy.
“We came to discuss the orderly transfer of the Brooklyn container terminals.”
“The docks cannot sit idle while the Rossi family plays nursemaid to an invalid.”
Vincent tapped the polished mahogany table with his diamond signet ring, drawing every eye toward him.
“My uncle’s health has unfortunately collapsed, Carmine,” Vincent spoke up, sliding a thick manila folder across the table.
“His mind has deteriorated beyond recovery.”
“Three days ago, in the presence of his personal physician and notary, Salvatore signed full operational authority over to me.”
“The family requires a strong hand, not a ghost who wanders the halls talking to shadows.”
Gabriel did not glance at the folder on the table.
He did not raise his voice.
He simply raised his right hand and touched his lapel.
The heavy carved doors at the far end of the ballroom swung open with a slow, resonant groan.
The heavy brass tip of an olive-wood cane struck the marble entryway with a sharp, echoing crack.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Don Salvatore Rossi walked into the room under his own power.
He wore no blanket, no dressing gown, and no medical tubes.
He was dressed in a pristine charcoal wool suit tailored forty years ago, the silver pocket watch of the Rossi patriarch gleaming against his vest.
His back was straight, his chin lifted, and his pale eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire that froze the breath in thirty throats.
Behind him walked Marco, holding a brass-bound wooden chest.
The room plunged into an icy, suffocating silence so profound that the ticking of Salvatore’s pocket watch seemed to fill the chamber.
Carmine Lucchese’s jaw dropped by half an inch, his good eye widening in genuine shock.
Vincent’s smug grin vanished, the color draining from his face until his skin resembled wet flour.
Salvatore approached the head of the table with slow, deliberate, majestic strides.
Every strike of his cane sounded like an executioner testing the drop of a gallows trap.
The Don stopped at the head of the table, his gaze sweeping over the assembled capos like an emperor inspecting condemned prisoners.
He did not look at Vincent.
He pulled back the heavy leather chair, sat down, and placed both hands flat upon the dark mahogany.
I stepped forward silently and poured room-temperature spring water into the Don’s crystal tumbler.
Salvatore lifted the glass, took a slow, measured sip, and set it down without a sound.
“You were speaking of my funeral, Vincent,” Salvatore said softly, his voice cutting through the ballroom like a razor through silk.
May you like
“Please, nephew.”
“Do not stop on my account.”
