Chapter 6 - The Council of Wolves
The Grandview Manor sat high atop the cliffs of the Hudson River, an isolated stone estate that had hosted family sit-downs since the 1970s. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the city lights, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter with submachine guns hidden beneath heavy overcoats.
At precisely eight-fifty, I walked through the double oak doors. I wore a gray tailored suit, walked with a deliberate, calculated limp, and carried an ivory-handled walking cane to sell the illusion of my declining strength. Sal walked half a step behind me, his expression stone-faced.
The banquet hall was filled with twenty-four high-ranking capos. At the head of the long mahogany table sat Marcus. He looked radiant, wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit, a diamond pinky ring catching the chandelier light, smiling like a prince about to receive his crown.
"Vincent!" Marcus boomed, standing up with arms open wide in mock filial warmth. "My brother. You look tired. Sit, please. Drink some wine. We are all here to honor your legendary reign."
I slowly made my way to the head of the table, leaning heavily on the cane, and took the high-backed leather chair opposite him. The room fell into absolute, suffocating silence. Every capo held their breath; they knew the balance of power in New York was shifting on this very night.
"Twenty years, Marcus," I said, my voice quiet, carrying effortlessly across the timber rafters. "Twenty years since I sat in this chair. We built this family on three simple rules: Protect the bloodline, honor your word, and never harm the innocent. Do you remember?"
"Every single word, boss," Marcus replied smoothly, signaling the server to pour two glasses of vintage Chianti. "Those rules made us kings. And under my leadership, I promise to preserve your legacy with the same iron hand."
"A legacy is not preserved with iron, Marcus," I said, reaching into my jacket. Several of Marcus’s personal bodyguards reached toward their holsters, but Marcus held up a condescending hand, laughing softly.
"Easy, boys," Marcus chuckled. "The Don is just retrieving his pen to sign the family charter."
I didn't pull out a pen. I pulled out a small black wireless speaker and placed it squarely in the center of the polished mahogany table.
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"Before we sign anything," I said calmly, looking around the room at the twenty-four capos who had sworn their lives to me, "there is an audit that requires family approval. A financial discrepancy from three years ago. Caleb's final account."
Marcus’s smile froze. The color drained from his face like water vanishing down an open drain.
