Chapter 7 - The Council of Five
By nine o'clock the following morning, news of Richard Blake's sudden "disappearance" had sent shockwaves through the highest echelons of New York's underworld.
The Council of Five—the heads of the city's reigning crime syndicates—called an emergency summit at the private dining room of the Harvard Club on 44th Street. They arrived under heavy guard, nervous, armed, and demanding explanations. They had heard rumors of gunfights at Teterboro and midnight raids on Blake's luxury properties.
When the massive oak doors of the dining hall opened, the four bosses fell silent.
I walked in, flanked not by hitmen or accountants, but by Dante carrying two heavy leather briefcases. I took the high-backed leather chair at the head of the banquet table, sitting under the oil portraits of long-dead American tycoons.
"Alexander," began Don Carmine Lucchese, the oldest boss at the table, leaning forward on his silver-topped cane. "Your men shut down the docks last night. Richard Blake's associates are in hiding. We have contracts worth forty million dollars in limbo. You owe this council an explanation before a war breaks out."
"There won't be a war, Carmine," I replied calmly, resting my forearms against the polished mahogany table.
Dante opened the briefcases, pulling out stacks of legal title deeds, offshore account keys, and forensic bank audits. He slammed them down before each boss.
"Richard Blake murdered my brother Julian eight years ago," I announced, my voice echoing off the paneled walls. "He framed it as a mechanical failure, embezzled sixty million from syndicate accounts, and planned to sell the Atlantic shipping corridors to a Russian cartel out of Miami. Every transaction, every recording, and every wire transfer is in front of you."
Don Carmine adjusted his glasses, flipping through the bank receipts. His weathered face darkened with genuine disgust. "He broke the sacred code. He moved against family blood."
"He did," I agreed. "And he has already paid his debt."
The bosses exchanged uneasy looks. None of them had loved Richard, but the speed and ruthlessness with which I had erased him in a single night reminded them why the Carter family held the throne.
"The assets Blake stole have been recovered," I continued. "Every dollar stolen from your operations has been returned with ten percent interest. But the European shipping terminals, the Manhattan real estate, and the Carter family shares remain with their rightful owner."
"And who is that, Alexander?" asked Salvatore Moretti, the boss of Brooklyn. "You never married. Julian left no will that the courts recognize."
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I smiled, a cold, triumphant smile that made the older men sit up straight.
"Julian had a daughter," I announced. "Her name is Sophie Carter. She is the sole heir to the Carter fortune. And anyone who so much as casts a shadow across her path will find out what happens when you make me angry."
