Chapter 13 - The Gathering of the Wolves
By noon,
the rain had completely stopped,
leaving Boston under a dome of pale,
freezing porcelain skies that reflected off the slate roofs of Beacon Hill like polished marble.
The grand dining room of the Duca estate had been cleared of debris,
the heavy mahogany table polished until it shone,
though two bullet holes in the ornamental plaster above the sideboard had been deliberately left uncovered,
a grim testament to the violence that had baptized the house before dawn.
Seated around the table were five men.
They were the district captains of the Duca syndicate,
men who controlled the gambling dens of the North End,
the extortion rackets of East Boston,
the construction unions in Southie,
and the freight terminals in Charlestown.
They sat in heavy woolen overcoats,
their faces hardened by decades of street warfare,
their eyes darting nervously toward the corners of the room where Briggs’s loyal soldiers stood in black suits,
hands resting casually on concealed firearms.
At the far end of the table,
the chair that had belonged to Marcus Vance sat conspicuously empty,
a glass of neat bourbon placed before the vacant seat like an offering to a corpse.
I walked into the room,
dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that concealed the heavy bandages binding my shoulder and ribs,
my stride slow,
deliberate,
and utterly devoid of hesitation.
The five captains stopped speaking instantly,
their posture stiffening as I approached the head of the table.
I did not sit down.
I placed my hands flat against the mahogany timber,
leaning forward slightly,
letting my cold gray eyes rake across each of their faces until every single man looked down at the table.
"Marcus Vance is dead,"
I announced,
my voice cutting through the room with the finality of an executioner's blade falling on an iron block.
A sharp,
collective intake of breath rippled through the captains.
Dominic Rossi,
the eldest captain,
who had run the East Boston loan-sharking operations since my grandfather's time,
cleared his throat,
his wrinkled hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his gold signet ring.
"Dead?"
Rossi croaked,
his voice strained with shock.
"Roman,
Marcus was your underboss.
He managed the books,
he dealt with the Russians,
he had connections with the mayor's office that took thirty years to build.
Who took him out?"
"I did,"
I said,
my voice devoid of anger,
devoid of pride,
stating the fact as if reporting the morning weather.
"He died at four in the morning,
on the floor of my father's cellar,
after attempting to murder every living soul under this roof."
The room fell into a suffocating,
terrified silence.
None of them dared to ask what Marcus had done,
because in our world,
when a boss executes his second-in-command with his own hands,
the reason is usually written in treason and sealed in blood.
"Marcus was a traitor,"
I continued,
straightening my spine,
looking directly at Vincent Falcone,
the captain who oversaw the Charlestown shipping docks.
"He was selling our cargo berths to Nikolai Voronin.
He was moving illegal shipments without family sanction,
and five years ago,
he ambushed and murdered my brother Julian on the turnpike to keep that secret buried."
Falcone's face drained of color,
his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
He had been Marcus’s closest associate on the docks,
and he knew that if I suspected him of complicity,
he would not make it past the front gates alive.
"Roman,
I swear on my mother's soul,"
Falcone stammered,
raising his palms defensively,
"I didn't know about Julian!
Marcus told us Julian lost control of his car!
We thought it was an accident,
we had no idea—"
"I know what you knew,
Vincent,"
I interrupted,
my tone dropping an octave,
chilling the air in the room.
"If you had known about Julian,
your head would already be sitting on that empty plate in front of Marcus's chair.
You are alive because you were stupid,
not because you were loyal.
From this moment forward,
the shipping routes in Charlestown belong directly to the executive office."
"And who takes Marcus’s percentage?"
asked Carlo Moretti,
the ambitious captain from the North End,
his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of greed and caution.
"Does it get split among the districts?"
"No,"
said a voice from the grand double doors behind me.
The heavy doors swung inward,
and the room seemed to lose all air.
Walking through the threshold,
supported by a polished black cane,
was Elena Duca.
She wore a dark velvet gown that draped regally over her thin frame,
her silver hair styled with austere elegance,
her chin tilted high with the undeniable majesty of a queen who had survived her own execution.
The five captains rose to their feet in sheer,
unadulterated disbelief,
two of them knocking their heavy chairs backward against the wainscoting.
"Mrs...
Mrs. Duca?"
Rossi gasped,
crossing himself with a trembling hand as if he were looking at the Virgin Mary rising from a tomb.
"You...
you died in Marblehead...
seventeen years ago..."
"I was kept in a cage by a coward,
Dominic,"
Elena said,
her voice ringing with a cold,
iron authority that made every man in the room bow his head in instinctive reverence.
"My husband is dead.
My son Julian was murdered.
And Marcus Vance has received his reward in hell.
The percentage that belonged to Marcus Vance does not go to any of you."
She stepped aside,
revealing Grace Harper,
who walked slowly into the dining room,
her face pale,
her arm in a black medical sling,
holding Mia firmly by the hand.
Mia wore a clean green wool dress,
her hair neatly braided,
her small face serious,
unafraid,
carrying herself with an eerie,
commanding dignity that mirrored the woman walking beside her.
"This is Mia Duca,"
Elena declared,
placing her fragile hand on the little girl's shoulder.
"She is Julian’s firstborn daughter.
She is the sole legal beneficiary of the Duca maritime trust,
she is the rightful heir to the Charlestown berths,
and until she comes of age,
her uncle Roman will hold the city in her name with an iron fist.
If any man at this table,
or any man in this city,
so much as looks at this child with disrespect,
my son will not just kill him.
He will erase his name,
his family,
and his legacy from Boston forever.
Do any of you have an objection?"
Not a single man spoke.
Dominic Rossi dropped to one knee on the parquet,
lowering his head before the six-year-old girl,
and one by one,
May you like
the other four captains followed suit,
kneeling in silence before the living ghost and the child who held the empire.
