Chapter 7 - A War on Two Fronts
The Union League Club stood like a fortress of dark brick and stained glass in the heart of downtown Chicago. For more than a century, politicians, industrialists, and the city’s true rulers had gathered in its private rooms to carve up territories over prime rib and aged brandy.
When our convoy of three black Suburbans pulled up to the rear entrance, Alessandro’s security team deployed with military precision. They formed a tight perimeter around me, their hands concealed inside heavy coats, their eyes scanning every rooftop and passing vehicle.
We ascended to the fourth-floor library via a private freight elevator. The heavy double doors were guarded by two imposing men wearing the silver lapel pins of the New York Gambino syndicate. When they saw Alessandro approach, their eyes widened in immediate recognition, and they stepped aside without asking for identification.
The doors opened, and the conversation inside died instantly.
The room smelled of expensive Cuban cigars and aged leather. Around a massive conference table sat seven of the most powerful men in the American syndicate, led by Don Carmine Lucchese, an eighty-year-old patriarch with snow-white hair and eyes like polished obsidian. At the far end of the table stood Luca, looking disheveled despite a fresh suit, his hands planted firmly on the mahogany wood as he leaned forward in mid-sentence.
Luca froze. His jaw dropped, and the color drained completely from his face as he watched me walk through the door, flanked by Alessandro Vinci and Caterina Bardi.
""Clara?"" Luca choked out, his voice cracking with disbelief. ""What... what the hell is this?""
I didn't answer him. I walked straight past him, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor, and stopped at the head of the table where Don Carmine sat. I extended my right hand. On my finger rested the dark platinum signet ring of the Moretti family.
Don Carmine’s ancient eyes dropped to the ring. For a moment, the room held its breath. Then, slowly, with the creak of old bones, the legendary Don of New York pushed back his chair and stood up. He took my hand, bowed his head, and pressed his lips to the cold platinum.
""Donna Clara,"" Don Carmine murmured in a raspy, gravelly voice. ""It has been twenty years since a Moretti sat at this table. Welcome back.""
The silence in the room was so profound that you could hear the tick of the grandfather clock across the hall.
Luca took a furious step forward, slamming his fist onto the table. ""Carmine! What are you doing? That is my wife! She suffered an emotional breakdown last night and fled our home! She has no business in this room!""
""Shut your mouth, Luca,"" Carmine snapped, not even bothering to look at him. His voice carried the chilling authority of a man who had ordered executions before Luca was even born. ""You speak when you are spoken to. You told us an unknown corporate predator was seizing your shipping lines. You told us your wife was missing.""
""She was missing!"" Luca shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me. ""And she brought Alessandro Vinci—an assassin and an exile—into our territory! She is committing treason against our family!""
""The only person committing treason here is you, Luca,"" I said, turning to face him, my voice completely devoid of fear, steady and cold as an arctic winter. ""You didn't just borrow money to finance your logistics operations. You mortgaged the collective syndicate docks to an entity you didn't even bother to investigate. You took fifty million dollars from Vanguard Crest, and as of eleven-thirty this morning, the default notices have been executed.""
Luca let out a harsh, mocking laugh that sounded desperate to everyone in the room. ""Vanguard Crest is a dummy corporation out of Delaware! What does that have to do with you, Clara? You can't even balance your own checkbook!""
I pulled a single sheet of paper from my inner jacket pocket and slid it across the polished wood, stopping it directly in front of his hands.
""Read the signature of the primary shareholder, Luca,"" I whispered.
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Luca looked down. His eyes scanned the document. His pupils dilated in sheer, unadulterated horror as he read the name printed in bold black ink beneath the corporate seal:
CLARA RUSSO MORETTI — SOLE TRUSTEE.
