Chapter 6 - The Summit Reconvened
Seventy-two hours later, the grand dining hall of the Beluchcci estate was prepared for the most critical diplomatic meeting in the history of the New York underworld.
Heavy bulletproof shutters were secured over the high arched windows, and the perimeter was guarded exclusively by Tony’s most loyal, veteran security personnel. At the center of the room sat a massive twenty-foot mahogany table set with crystal, fine china, and silver carafes of iced water.
Sitting across from Lorenzo were Don Carmine Moretti, the aging patriarch of the Queens syndicate, and Salvatore Lucchese, head of the Brooklyn docks. Both men wore dark suits and grim expressions, surrounded by their personal consiglieres.
Carmine Moretti cleared his throat, leaning his weathered hands on the polished table. “Lorenzo, when your SUV went off the embankment at mile marker 8, rumors swept through the city like wildfire. People said you were dead. Then people said the Russians took you out. We didn't know what to believe until your summons arrived.”
Lorenzo leaned back in his leather armchair, looking at the two older bosses with cold, unflinching authority. “The ambush was planned by my cousin Marco. But he didn't work alone. He had promises of support from factions within your organization, Carmine.”
Don Moretti’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “If anyone in my family touched this without my blessing, give me their names, Lorenzo. I will handle them myself before the night is through. The Moretti family does not conduct business through back-alley treachery. We came here to sign a treaty, not start a war that burns our own children.”
Lorenzo slid a manila folder across the table toward Moretti. Inside were transcripts of phone calls between Marco Beluchcci and two mid-level Moretti capos who had tried to broker a coup behind their boss's back.
Moretti reviewed the documents, his face turning dark with fury. He closed the folder with a heavy slap and handed it to his consigliere. “Consider it resolved. Those two men will never see the dawn. Our treaty stands, Lorenzo. Full territorial peace across all transit corridors, shared logistics at the northern docks, and mutual defense against foreign syndicates.”
Salvatore Lucchese nodded in agreement, raising his glass of sparkling mineral water. “To peace, Lorenzo. And to the instinct that kept you out of that car.”
May you like
Lorenzo raised his glass, but his mind wasn't on the multi-million-dollar shipping lanes or the territory maps spread before them. His thoughts were with the little girl who had run across the gravel driveway with an untied shoe and a stuffed rabbit, changing the course of New York history with a single, courageous scream.
“To loyalty,” Lorenzo toasted quietly. “The only currency that truly matters.”
