Chapter 6 - The Manhattan Commission Summit
The black rain fell in heavy,
relentless sheets against the tinted glass,
as our five-vehicle armored motorcade pulled up to the rear entrance of the Gotham Club in lower Manhattan.
The building was a massive,
gothic fortress of gray stone,
standing silent and imposing among the glittering glass skyscrapers of Wall Street.
Carmine stepped out first,
his long coat unbuttoned,
his right hand rested casually inside his jacket where his heavy firearm sat against his ribs.
Two guards holding wide black umbrellas stepped forward,
shielding Gabriel and me as we moved swiftly across the wet sidewalk toward the heavy iron doors.
Inside,
the air was thick with the scent of polished beeswax,
aged mahogany,
and expensive tobacco.
We walked down a long,
carpeted corridor lined with oil paintings of former senators and industrial tycoons,
heading straight toward the subterranean council chamber.
This was where the Commission met—the ruling council of the five crime families that controlled the entire northeastern seaboard.
The double mahogany doors were guarded by four armed men wearing identical charcoal suits,
their faces emotionless,
their eyes scanning us with cold,
practiced suspicion.
Carmine nodded to the chief security coordinator,
who used a heavy brass key to unlock the heavy brass deadbolts.
The doors swung open,
revealing a cavernous room centered around a massive round table made of solid walnut.
Seated around the table were four elderly men,
each flanked by two trusted lieutenants standing silently behind their leather chairs.
These were the heads of the Brooklyn,
Queens,
Bronx,
and Staten Island families.
"Gabriel,"
said Don Moretti,
the oldest boss in New York,
his voice sounding like grinding gravel.
"We heard you were dying in an Alpine hospital,"
Moretti continued,
his sharp gray eyes sweeping over Gabriel's upright posture.
"Rumors move fast in this business,"
Gabriel replied smoothly,
taking his seat at the fifth leather chair.
"Especially when the people spreading them are the ones trying to put you under the dirt."
Gabriel motioned for me to step forward.
I took a deep breath,
holding the black leather binder tightly against my chest.
The four bosses looked at me with open condescension,
their brows furrowed in annoyance.
"Who is this girl,
Falcone?"
asked Don Valenti of Queens,
leaning forward with a deep scowl.
"Why are you bringing a domestic servant into a private Commission meeting?"
"This girl,"
Gabriel declared,
his voice ringing out across the quiet chamber,
"saved my life when eighteen of the highest-paid surgeons in the state failed."
"And more importantly,"
Gabriel added,
"she uncovered a plot that threatens every single man sitting at this table."
I stepped up to the center of the table,
unzipping my leather case and placing six glass specimen tubes directly onto the polished wood.
Beside the tubes,
I laid out the chemical analysis reports and the ledger pulled from the Paterson factory.
"Gentlemen,"
I began,
my voice clear and steady despite the pounding in my throat,
"these six black stitches were removed from Gabriel Falcone's shoulder three days ago."
"They are made of twelve-ply industrial polyester cord,"
I explained,
"coated with an organophosphate compound that mimics aggressive,
flesh-eating bacteria."
Don Moretti leaned over,
squinting through his wire-rimmed glasses at the chemical report.
"Organophosphate?"
Moretti whispered.
"That's industrial chemical poison."
"It was designed to dissolve slowly under human body heat,"
I said,
turning a page in the ledger.
"And according to these shipping manifests from Ironclad Logistics,"
"this thread was manufactured in an abandoned mill in Paterson,"
"and distributed through a private medical network."
I paused,
looking directly into Don Moretti's eyes.
"Don Moretti,"
I said softly,
"you had knee replacement surgery at Saint Jude's Private Clinic two weeks ago,
didn't you?"
Moretti froze,
his face turning an ash-gray color.
"How do you know that?"
he demanded.
"Because the same medical supply company that delivered the sutures to Gabriel's clinic,"
I revealed,
"delivered thirty boxes of specialized surgical thread to Saint Jude's three days before your procedure."
A sudden,
horrifying silence descended upon the room.
Moretti reached down with a trembling hand,
touching the side of his right knee through his woolen trousers.
"Carmine,"
Gabriel ordered sharply,
"call Dr. Miller immediately."
"Tell him to bring a forensic surgical kit to the safehouse right now."
Before Carmine could reach his phone,
the heavy crystal chandelier hanging above the center of the table vibrated violently.
A low,
rattling boom echoed from the floor above us,
shaking dust from the carved plaster ceiling.
"Security!"
Don Valenti yelled,
standing up so fast his heavy chair overturned.
The double mahogany doors burst open,
and two of the outer hallway guards fell backward onto the carpet,
their chests riddle with silent,
high-caliber bullet wounds.
"Ambush!"
May you like
Carmine roared,
drawing his weapon and shoving me down beneath the heavy walnut table as automatic gunfire filled the air.
