Chapter 7 - The Gathering of Wolves
The Gold Coast Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was lined with heavy velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, and armed bodyguards standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the perimeter.
At the center of the massive room sat a long mahogany conference table. Seated around it were the elder dons of Chicago's five historical syndicates. At the head of the table sat Salvatore Ferraro, dressed in an immaculate bespoke navy suit, a diamond ring gleaming on his pinky finger as he slowly stirred sugar into an espresso cup.
Sal smiled warmly as Gabe entered the double doors alone, flanked only by Tommy and Marcus.
Gabriel, Sal spoke, spreading his hands wide with theatrical sorrow. My boy. Look at what this life has done to you. Paranoia is a terrible sickness. Paulie is in the emergency room with a shattered shoulder because you panicked in a church. We are your family. If you needed rest, if the burden of the docks was too heavy, you only had to ask your uncle.
The other dons shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Don Moretti, an eighty-year-old veteran with sunken cheeks, cleared his throat. Gabriel, Sal says you have broken the peace. You brought weapons into Saint Jude's. You canceled council meetings. What is the meaning of this?
Gabe did not sit. He walked slowly to the foot of the table, placing his leather-gloved hands flat on the polished wood.
Fourteen years ago, my father, Enzo Santoro, was murdered on Western Avenue, Gabe began, his voice echoing evenly off the high ceilings. We were told it was an unprovoked hit by freelance crews from Detroit. We went to war. We buried forty men. And while the Santoro family bled, Salvatore Ferraro absorbed the shipping docks, took control of the union pensions, and took a forty percent kickback from the Moretti narcotics route.
Sal’s smile vanished, replaced by an amused sneer. Old rumors, Gabe. The fantasies of grieving boys. You bring us here at midnight to recount ancient history?
I didn't come to recount history, Gabe said coldly. I came to deliver Enzo's final will.
Gabe lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.
Marcus, standing near the audio control panel at the back of the room, flipped a master switch. A harsh hiss of static filled the room's high-fidelity speakers, followed by the deep, unmistakable, gravelly voice of Enzo Santoro recorded on March 12, fourteen years prior:
‘Sal, don't play the fool with me. I saw the manifests. You sold the south terminal to Moretti's distributors. You brought heroin into our neighborhoods after I explicitly forbade it. You have until tomorrow noon to surrender your books, or I will hand the federal wiretaps to the commission myself.’
Then came the voice of Salvatore Ferraro, younger, sharper, and venomous:
‘You're getting soft, Enzo. The old traditions don't buy senators. If you won't evolve with the times, you're just an obstacle on Western Avenue.’
The audio cut out.
The silence that followed in the ballroom was absolute. You could hear the faint hum of the chandeliers above. Don Moretti slowly turned his gaze toward Sal, his aged eyes cold as winter ice.
Where did you get that garbage? Sal hissed, his composure finally cracking as he stood up, knocking his espresso cup over onto the white saucer. That's a forgery! A digital trick!
It was pulled from inside my father's clock movement two hours ago, Gabe said, taking three steps toward his uncle. Locked with the very cufflinks you put on my wrists. The clockmaker you tried to beat to death on Racine Avenue is sitting upstairs in my penthouse, ready to testify before the commission.
Sal's face turned from red to ash. He looked to his left and right, but none of the other bosses met his eyes. They had lived by the code that Enzo established: betrayal of the bloodline was an unforgivable death sentence.
May you like
You're a boy playing at being a Don, Sal whispered, his hand sliding smoothly toward his open jacket.
Before his fingers could touch his holster, three distinct red laser sights from Marcus's snipers on the balcony settled squarely on Sal's forehead.
