Chapter 13 - The Rotunda of Judgment
The rotunda beneath the 38-foot Tiffany glass dome was closed to the general public.
Heavy oak doors, guarded by four armed men whose jackets bulged conspicuously under their armpits, swung shut behind us, cutting off the jazz music and laughter of the main gala.
Inside, five men sat around a massive circular mahogany table. They were the arbiters—retired patriarchs of the Midwest syndicates, men whose word was law in the underworld.
At the head of the table sat Judge Harrison Vance—no relation to my father, but an eighty-year-old federal judge whose family had brokered treaties between Chicago's rival factions since the days of Al Capone.
“Gabriel,” the judge said, his voice raspy and ancient. “You have called for an extraordinary validation of the Great Lakes Charter.”
“I have,” Gabriel said, stepping toward the table. He pulled out the high-backed leather chair beside his own and held it for me. “Miss Vance, if you please.”
I sat down, my heart pounding in my throat, but my hands remained completely steady. I had spent my entire life handling priceless, delicate things. These men might be murderers and syndicate bosses, but in this room, they were subject to the authority of ink, parchment, and history.
Leo set the aluminum case on the table and unlatched the dual biometric locks.
The lid lifted with a soft pneumatic hiss.
I put on my cotton gloves, lifted the 1482 codex from its custom foam bed, and laid it open to the primary charter page beneath the overhead spotlights.
Beside the book, I laid out three high-resolution UV spectral photographs and my detailed conservation report.
“Gentlemen,” I said, my voice echoing clearly beneath the stained-glass dome. “On November twelfth, an alkaline-based chemical agent was deliberately applied to the lower third of folio forty-eight. The perpetrator intended to dissolve the iron gall ink containing the Vittorio exclusion covenant.”
I slid the ultraviolet photographs across the mahogany surface to Judge Vance.
“Under multispectral illumination,” I continued, pointing to the glowing Latin script, “the residual iron oxide particles within the paper fiber are ninety-eight percent legible. The text reads: *‘No transfer of authority shall be recognized if initiated by the branch of Vittorio.’* The paper sizing matches the watermark of the Fabriano paper mills of 1480. The text is legally authentic, structurally intact, and historically undeniable.”
The old judge pulled a magnifying loupe from his breast pocket and leaned over the photographs, then over the ancient parchment itself.
The silence in the rotunda was so heavy you could hear the distant traffic outside on Michigan Avenue.
Dominic stood near the back wall, sweating through his tuxedo shirt, his eyes darting frantically toward the heavy exit doors. Two of Gabriel’s men were already standing in front of them, their arms crossed.
Judge Vance lowered his loupe. He looked up at Dominic, then at Salvatore Moretti, and finally at Gabriel.
“The charter stands,” Judge Vance declared, his voice dry as autumn leaves. “The Hart family maintains exclusive primacy over the Great Lakes logistics network until the next centenary in 2047. The claim by the Vittorio branch is rejected as fraudulent.”
Moretti gave a curt, polite nod, picked up his walking stick, and stood. “The Moretti family honors the ruling of the arbiters. Good evening, Gabriel.” He didn't even look at Dominic as he walked out.
Dominic was entirely alone.
“Gabriel... please,” Dominic whispered, his voice cracking with pure terror as Gabriel stood up from the table. “We’re blood. Our fathers were brothers!”
Gabriel adjusted his cufflinks, his face an emotionless mask of marble.
“Blood that poisons the well is not family, Dominic,” Gabriel said softly. “It’s infection.”
He glanced at Leo.
“Take him to the basement at the Indiana terminal. I will join you in an hour.”
“No! Gabriel! Please!” Dominic screamed as Leo grabbed him by the shoulder, clamping a hand over his mouth and dragging him out through a private side exit.
The heavy door clicked shut.
The rotunda was empty now, save for Judge Vance, Gabriel, and me.
Judge Vance slowly closed the folio, his aged hands remarkably gentle. He looked up at me over his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Arthur Vance was a good man, young lady,” the old judge said softly. “He would be proud of your work tonight.”
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered.
The judge nodded to Gabriel, picked up his cane, and shuffled slowly out of the rotunda.
We were alone beneath the vast, glowing Tiffany dome.
Gabriel turned to me. The cold brutality in his eyes had melted away, replaced by an exhaustion so profound it made him look ten years older.
He walked over to my chair, reached down, and took both of my gloved hands in his.
“It’s over,” he whispered. “The charter is safe.”
“Is it ever really over for you, Gabriel?” I asked, searching his eyes.
He looked down at our joined hands, his thumb gently stroking the white cotton covering my fingers.
May you like
“No,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “It’s never over. But tonight... for the first time in ten years... I don't feel like I’m fighting alone.”
***