Chapter 12 - The Council of Five
The Chicago Cultural Center was illuminated like a jewel against the dark waters of Lake Michigan.
Police cruisers with flashing lights blocked off Washington Street, not to investigate a crime, but to escort the black limousines and armored SUVs that glided smoothly toward the grand entrance under the Tiffany glass dome.
The city’s legitimate political elite—senators, judges, commissioners—mingled seamlessly on the marble floors with men who controlled the docks, the trucking unions, and the offshore bank accounts.
As Gabriel and I stepped through the grand bronze doors, a hush rippled through the grand hall.
Gabriel didn’t glance at the crowd. He kept his left hand tucked over mine where it rested on his forearm. At our flank walked Leo, carrying a heavy, climate-sealed aluminum case containing the 1482 codex.
Whispers followed our every step.
*“Is that Hart?”*
*“Who is she?”*
*“Where did he find her? Look at the emeralds on her ears...”*
Standing near the grand staircase beneath the stained-glass dome was a cluster of men in bespoke suits. In the center stood Dominic Hart.
He looked like Gabriel, but corrupted—his jaw was softer, his hair styled too slickly, his eyes small and restless. Beside him stood an older man with silver hair and a heavy gold signet ring: Salvatore Moretti.
When Dominic saw Gabriel approach, his fake smile faltered. But when his eyes landed on me, and then on the aluminum case in Leo’s hands, his face turned the color of curdled milk.
“Gabriel,” Dominic said, stepping forward with an outstretched hand that trembled almost imperceptibly. “Cousin. We weren't sure you’d make it. The rumors about the vault fire...”
Gabriel didn’t take Dominic’s hand. He left his cousin’s fingers hanging in the cold air between them.
“The fire was poorly set, Dominic,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet circle of onlookers. “Like everything you organize.”
Dominic pulled his hand back, his eyes narrowing viciously. “Careful, Gabriel. The Council meets in twenty minutes. If your documentation isn't presented to the arbiters, the Indiana terminals are partitioned tonight.”
“The documentation is here,” Gabriel replied smoothly. He turned slightly, introducing me with an elegance that defied the venom in the air. “This is Clara Vance. Arthur Vance’s daughter. The chief archivist of the Hart collection.”
Salvatore Moretti stepped forward, his cold, reptilian eyes assessing me with sharp intelligence. “Arthur Vance? The bookbinder from Dearborn? I thought the old man was dead.”
“He is,” I said, lifting my chin, refusing to shrink beneath the old mobster’s gaze. “And his craft lives on in me, Mr. Moretti. The 1482 Venetian codices have been stabilized, desalted, and the chemical erasure attempted on the succession clause has been fully reversed under spectral analysis.”
A collective gasp went through the surrounding circle.
Dominic’s breath hitched violently. “Erasure? What the hell are you talking about? There was no erasure!”
“You know what was erased, Dominic,” Gabriel said, taking half a step closer. The sheer physical menace radiating from him forced Dominic to take a step back. “The clause excluding the Vittorio line from any claim to the northern shipping lanes. Your line.”
Dominic looked desperately toward Moretti, but the old New York boss took half a step away from him, completely abandoning his pawn the second the trap snapped shut.
May you like
“The Council convenes in the rotunda,” Gabriel told his cousin, his voice a death sentence wrapped in silk. “You will sit at the table. You will listen to Miss Vance present the charter. And then, Dominic... you and I will have a conversation about family loyalty.”
***