Chapter 8 - The Price of a Queen
The tribunal of the Five Families took place not in an alley, but in the subterranean vault of the Old City Bank—a neutral territory consecrated sixty years ago where no blood had ever been spilled.
The room was illuminated by antique chandeliers hanging over a long marble table. Seated at the head were the Don of the Falcone family, the Don of the Marchesi family, and an eighty-year-old Don Moretti, his face grim as granite.
Across from them sat Alessandro Romano.
He was alone, save for Marco standing behind his chair holding a heavy leather briefcase. He wore a crisp, midnight-blue bespoke suit, his hands folded calmly on the table.
Sitting on the far side of Moretti was Victor Russo. Victor looked smug, arrogant, confident that his alliance with Moretti’s soldiers had secured his ascension to the throne.
“You called this meeting under the ancient rites, Romano,” Don Falcone rasped, his ancient eyes scanning the room. “Speak your piece. Why should the commission not sanction a full war between your family and Moretti’s coalition?”
Victor leaned forward, a mocking sneer curling his lip. “He called the meeting because he’s weak! He’s distracted by a little West Side waitress who cleans floors! He lost his stomach for blood, and now he’s running to the old men to save his skin!”
Alessandro didn't look at Victor. He didn't even acknowledge the man existed.
“Open the briefcase, Marco,” Alessandro said quietly.
Marco clicked the brass latches open, pulling out four thick stacks of audited financial documents, sliding one copy to each of the sitting Dons.
“Those are transaction records from the Union Bank of Switzerland,” Alessandro said, his voice ringing smooth and lethal in the vaulted chamber. “Transfers totaling twenty-two million dollars over the last eighteen months, routed through shell companies in Panama.”
Don Moretti frowned, picking up his folder. His eyes scanned the first page, and the color slowly drained from his face.
“These funds were skimmed from the Romano harbor operations,” Alessandro continued, his gaze shifting toward Moretti. “Ten million of which was earmarked for the joint Romano-Moretti shipping syndicate. Victor Russo didn't just steal from me. He stole from you, Moretti. He used your own money to buy the weapons and hire the mercenaries who attacked the Starlight Diner on Monday.”
Victor went white as a sheet. “That’s a lie! He forged those documents!”
“The signatures are verified by the Swiss banking ombudsman,” Alessandro replied calmly, finally turning his icy hazel eyes upon his former right hand. “And the IP addresses trace directly to your private apartment on Elm Street, Victor. You didn't just commit treason against your Don. You committed treason against the entire commission.”
The heavy silence in the vault was suffocating.
Don Falcone closed his folder with a heavy thud. He looked at Moretti.
Don Moretti slowly turned his head toward Victor. The old man’s eyes were dead, devoid of pity, burning with the cold wrath of an elder who had been played for a fool by a subordinate.
“You stole from my pocket, Victor?” Moretti whispered, the menace in his raspy voice far more terrifying than a shout. “You used my syndicate’s honor as a shield to cover your embezzlement?”
“Don Moretti, listen to me!” Victor panicked, scrambling out of his chair, backing away toward the heavy vault door. “It was business! We were going to split Romano’s territory! We were—”
“The commission has heard enough,” Don Falcone declared, striking the table with his ring. “Victor Russo is declared *persona non grata*. His protections are revoked. His blood belongs to the Romano family.”
Moretti raised one finger. The two Moretti guards flanking the vault door immediately drew their silenced weapons, blocking Victor’s exit.
Victor looked around the room, realizing with horrifying finality that the trap had snapped shut. The empire he had plotted to seize had dissolved into dust beneath the weight of cold, indisputable ledgers.
Alessandro slowly rose from his seat. He buttoned his jacket with deliberate precision, walking across the marble floor until he stood three inches from the trembling traitor.
“You thought Emily was my weakness, Victor,” Alessandro said softly, his voice a lethal purr. “You thought because I opened my heart to something decent, something pure, that I had forgotten how to wield the sword.”
He leaned in close, his hazel eyes boring into Victor’s terrified soul.
“She wasn't my weakness, Victor. She was my reason to survive. And you... you were just a shadow that forgot who made the light.”
Alessandro turned toward Marco.
May you like
“Take him to the harbor,” Alessandro said coldly. “Let the tide have what’s left.”
***