Chapter 9 - The Godfather’s Vow
Three days later, the Grand Imperial Hotel ballroom was restored to perfection. The broken crystal had been replaced, the velvet curtains re-hung, and the scent of cordite replaced by the fragrant perfume of thousands of white orchids.
All five syndicates of the Chicago underworld were in attendance. Three hundred mob bosses, capos, and international delegates sat at the linen-draped tables in dead silence.
At the head of the room, on a raised dais beneath the glittering central chandelier, sat three ornate chairs.
I walked out from the wings wearing a bespoke three-piece charcoal suit, the golden teddy bear pin gleaming proudly over my heart. Beside me walked Emily, regal and breathtaking in an emerald-green silk gown. And walking proudly between us, holding both of our hands and swinging her feet with every step, was Daisy, wearing a brand new, custom-made sunshine-yellow gown spun from real gold thread.
She carried her pink plastic microphone proudly at her waist like a holstered sidearm.
The entire room stood up in unison, bowing their heads in deep, terrified respect.
I stepped up to the podium, looking out over the men who had once whispered about my downfall.
""Five years ago, a betrayal tore a piece of my soul away,"" I spoke, my voice carrying effortlessly across the grand hall without the need for a microphone. ""Men in this room profited from that lie. Men in this room thought the Romano family was weakening. Marcus Bell paid for that mistake with his life.""
A collective shiver ran through the assembled bosses.
""Emily has returned to take her rightful place as head of the family council,"" I continued, gesturing to my sister, who stood tall, radiating power and grace. ""Her word is my word. Her command is law. Anyone who disrespects her will answer to the full might of my soldiers.""
The room erupted into solemn applause, acknowledging Emily’s return to power.
Then, I looked down at Daisy, who was currently trying to catch a floating speck of dust in the air.
""And this,"" I said, lifting the tiny girl into my arms and resting her against my chest, ""is Daisy Romano. From this day forward, she is under the absolute protection of every family under the Chicago banner. If a single hair on her head is harmed, if she sheds a single tear because of any man in this room, I will burn your empires to ash and salt the earth where your houses stand.""
I looked at Daisy. ""Do you have anything to say to our guests, princess?""
Daisy took her pink microphone, pressed the button, and leaned in close.
""NO MORE POOPY-HEADS ALLOWED!"" she declared firmly. ""AND EVERYBODY MUST EAT MACARONI! THAT IS THE LAW!""
For three seconds, the most ruthless criminals in North America sat in stunned silence.
Then, the oldest and most stoic Don in Chicago—Don Moretti, an eighty-year-old patriarch who hadn't smiled since 1994—burst into a loud, genuine laugh. He stood up and began to clap enthusiastically.
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Within moments, the entire ballroom was on its feet, roaring with thunderous applause and laughter. Men who had killed for territory were cheering for a two-year-old girl in a fluffy yellow dress.
Daisy beamed, soaking in the adoration, and blew another exaggerated kiss into the microphone. ""MWAHHH! THANK YOU, CHICAGO!""
