Chapter 6 - Blood on the Mahogany
The explosion of violence was instantaneous.
Vincent Donovan knew he had lost the gambit. Before Gaspar could close the distance, Donovan reached inside his jacket, whipping out a snub-nosed revolver aimed straight at Gaspar’s chest.
""Move and he dies!"" Donovan yelled.
But Donovan had underestimated Agatha Bellweather’s reflexes.
Agatha had spent her entire youth dodging steam irons, broken glass, and drunk enforcers trying to extort her father’s storefront. The moment Donovan’s shoulder dipped to draw his weapon, Agatha grabbed a heavy, lead-crystal decanter from the service sideboard and hurled it across the room with all the strength in her shoulders.
The decanter struck Donovan squarely in the side of the temple with a sickening crack.
The heavy glass shattered, showering the Midwestern boss in twenty-year-old Scotch and jagged crystal shards. Donovan's shot went wide, blowing a fist-sized chunk out of the plaster molding on the ceiling.
In the next half-second, Gaspar Valdora was upon him.
Gaspar didn't use a gun. He grabbed Donovan by the lapels of his custom cashmere suit and slammed him down across the solid walnut table with bone-crushing force. China plates shattered. Wine glasses exploded. Donovan screamed as Gaspar pinned his throat to the timber with one massive forearm.
""You tried to assassinate me with a dry cleaner's collar,"" Gaspar snarled into Donovan's bleeding face, his voice rumbling like an earthquake. ""You tried to make me die like an old dog in front of my peers.""
Donovan’s personal bodyguards raised their weapons to intervene, but Sal Moretti’s men and Remo Calder’s team moved faster, pressing gun barrels directly behind the ears of every Donovan soldier in the room.
""Stand down, boys,"" Sal Moretti said, his voice flat and amused as he chewed on an unlit cigar. ""Donovan broke the cardinal rule of the commission. Treachery against a sitting Don under the guise of peace. His life is forfeit. Nobody dies for a traitor whose plan was foiled by a laundry girl.""
Gaspar applied steady, crushing pressure to Donovan’s throat. Donovan’s face turned purple, his legs thrashing against the chairs.
""Who supplied the custom shirts, Vincent?"" Gaspar demanded. ""Where did the steel come from?""
""The... the harbor..."" Donovan sputtered, clawing at Gaspar's sleeve. ""Pier Forty-Two... the Ukrainian syndicate... they forged the stays... they're waiting for the signal... five million in weapons... moving at midnight...""
Gaspar stared into Donovan’s terrified eyes for three endless seconds, then slowly released his grip. Donovan rolled onto the shattered glass, coughing and gagging for air.
Gaspar straightened his jacket. The tattered white collar was still hanging open, exposing the bruised indentations on his throat where the steel stay had crushed his flesh for weeks. He turned to Remo.
""Take Donovan and Vance down to the wine cellar,"" Gaspar ordered coldly. ""Strip their phones. Take their rings. Put them in the cold storage until the sun comes up.""
""Understood, Boss,"" Remo said, dragging Donovan off the table while two other enforcers hauled Leo Vance out by his heels. The heavy basement doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off their muffled pleas.
Gaspar looked around the room. The remaining five commission bosses were standing motionless, their expressions a mixture of shock, respect, and deep, lingering fear.
Gaspar had survived fourteen near-fatal attacks without knowing the weapon. Now that the weapon was broken, he was more dangerous than he had ever been.
""The meeting is concluded,"" Gaspar announced, his dark eyes sweeping over Moretti and the others. ""The Newark terminals remain under Valdora control. The commission agreements stand as they were written. Anyone who disagrees may voice their objection right now.""
Nobody spoke.
Sal Moretti gave a low, appreciative nod, tucked his gun back inside his jacket, and turned toward the exit. ""Good to see you back on your feet, Gaspar. Next time... hire a better tailor.""
Within five minutes, the limousines were pulling out of the driveway, their headlights cutting through the heavy rain.
May you like
The Grand Council Hall was left in ruins—covered in shattered crystal, spilled bourbon, and blood.
In the center of the wreckage stood Gaspar Valdora. And ten feet away, holding her heavy tailoring shears with trembling hands, was Agatha Bellweather.
