Chapter 6 - The Council of Wolves
By dawn, the mansion was scrubbed clean of violence. The broken glass had been replaced, the marble floors washed with bleach, and the bodies of Moretti’s hitmen dumped into the deep waters off Long Island Sound.
Yet inside the D’Angelo organization, a different kind of storm was brewing.
At two in the afternoon, the five capos of the Five Families gathered in the subterranean boardroom beneath Arturo’s private club in Manhattan. The air was thick with cigar smoke and quiet treason.
Levian sat at Arturo’s right hand, while Laura, now wearing a high-collared navy dress that screamed wealth and elegance, stood near the refreshments bar, pouring ice water. Arturo had refused to leave her at the estate. After the attack, he kept her within reach of his own eyes at all times.
“You brought a maid to the High Council table, Arturo?” spat Vincente Rossi, an elder capo whose gray hair and weathered face carried decades of mob politics. “Moretti attacked your home, killed six of our soldiers, and you bring a servant girl to pour our scotch? Are you losing your grip on this family?”
The temperature in the boardroom plummeted. Levian reached discreetly toward his jacket, but Arturo simply raised two fingers, stopping his consigliere in his tracks.
Arturo leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished mahogany table. The gold cufflinks on his wrists caught the overhead lights. “Vincente. Speak about her again, and I’ll have your tongue cut out and served to your dogs.”
Vincente’s face turned an ugly shade of purple, but he clamped his mouth shut. No one doubted Arturo’s promises.
“Moretti violated the ancient law of sanctuary,” Arturo announced, his voice carrying the weight of an executioner’s gavel. “He brought rifles to my private residence. He tried to slaughter my household. Under the rules laid down by the Commission in 1954, his territory is forfeit. His ports, his trucks, his construction rackets—all of it belongs to the D’Angelo family now.”
“The Commission hasn't voted on that yet!” shouted Marco Falcone, Moretti’s primary ally in the room. “You can't just execute a family head without a formal tribunal!”
“There will be no tribunal,” Arturo said calmly, standing up. He buttoned his suit jacket, towering over the gathered mobsters like a grim reaper in Italian silk. “Because by midnight tonight, Carlo Moretti will cease to exist. Levian, prepare the convoys.”
As Arturo turned to leave the room, his eyes found Laura. He walked directly to her, ignoring the stunned, disapproving glares of the elder capos. In front of the entire underworld leadership, Arturo took Laura’s small hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles with unhurried reverence.
“Wait in my office upstairs,” he murmured, his gaze softening only for her. “When I return, this war ends.”
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Laura looked into the eyes of the man who ruled New York’s shadows. She didn't see a monster; she saw a guardian who had built a wall of steel around her heart. “Come back to me, Arturo.”
“Always,” he vowed.
