Chapter 5 - The Council of Wolves
The clock in the main hall struck 11:45 PM.
Outside, the storm had escalated into a full gale, heavy wind howling through the pine trees surrounding the estate, driving rain against the tall leaded windows.
In the subterranean safe room beneath the east wing—a reinforced bunker wrapped in six inches of steel and mahogany paneling—Clara sat on a velvet sofa with Sofia. The room was warm, filled with plush toys, books, and a small kitchenette. Sofia was fast asleep, her head resting in Clara’s lap, her small chest rising and falling in deep, peaceful rhythm.
Clara stroked the girl’s hair, listening to the muffled thud of footsteps overhead.
Upstairs, in the grand formal dining room, the atmosphere was thick with smoke and quiet malice.
A massive oak table sat beneath a crystal chandelier. Dante sat at the head of the table, dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks, a single crystal glass of scotch resting between his hands.
To his right sat Julian Vancini—his thirty-two-year-old cousin, a handsome, slick man with thin lips, expensive hair, and a gold watch that gleamed under the lights.
To his left sat Dominick Vancini—Dante’s sixty-year-old uncle, a lawyer with silver hair, sharp gray eyes, and a heavy signet ring featuring a dark red ruby set in silver on his left thumb.
Four armed guards stood against the dark oak walls, their arms crossed, their faces unreadable.
“Dante,” Julian said, swirling his bourbon, his tone laced with impatience. “It’s midnight. You called us out here in the middle of a monsoon. You said you found Marco’s ledger? Where is he?”
Dante didn't answer immediately. He took a slow sip of his scotch, the amber liquid catching the light of the chandelier.
“Marco is downstairs,” Dante said calmly. “In the cellar. He’s missing four fingers, Julian. But he was surprisingly chatty before he lost consciousness.”
Julian’s hand froze mid-air. The color drained slightly from his cheeks, but he recovered quickly, offering a dismissive laugh. “Marco was a traitor. We all knew he was skimming off the Brooklyn piers. If you eliminated him, you did the family a favor.”
“He didn't just skim the piers, Julian,” Dante said softly, leaning forward, resting his broad forearms on the table. “He poisoned my wife.”
Dominic Vancini’s silver eyebrows lifted slightly. He adjusted his silk tie with his left hand—the ruby signet ring catching the chandelier light. “Dante... Lucia’s death was an tragedy, a cardiac event. The coroner’s report was clear—”
“The coroner was paid eighty thousand dollars by a shell company in the Cayman Islands,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping into a deadly register. “A company registered under your wife’s maiden name, Uncle Dominick.”
Dominick’s face went gray.
Julian stood up abruptly, knocking his leather chair backward onto the floor. “This is ridiculous! You’re taking the word of a dirty traitor over your own blood?! You’ve gone mad, Dante! Ever since Lucia died, you’ve been unfit to run this family!”
“Sit down, Julian,” Dante commanded softly.
“No!” Julian shouted, reaching toward his armpit holster. “We built this empire! You’re giving everything away to lawyers and psychologists while your brat sits mute in a corner!”
BANG!
A single shot echoed through the dining room.
Julian collapsed back into his chair, a bullet hole drilled precisely through his right shoulder, his gun clattering across the mahogany table. He shrieked in agony, clutching his bleeding arm.
Leo stood behind Dante, his suppressed pistol still smoking slightly.
Dominick sat frozen, his hands flat on the table, staring at his bleeding son in absolute terror.
Dante didn't even blink. He slowly stood up, walked around the long table, and stopped beside his uncle. He reached down, grabbed Dominick’s left hand, and stared at the heavy ruby signet ring on his thumb.
“Sofia spoke today, Uncle,” Dante whispered, his dark eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying flame. “She told me about the man who gave Marco the dark bottle in the kitchen. She remembered the red stone.”
Dominick began to tremble violently. “Dante... please... it was Julian’s idea! He said the Falcones would back us! He said Lucia was convincing you to go legitimate, to sell off the shipping lines! You were going to ruin us!”
Dante leaned down, his face inches from his uncle’s ear.
“My wife was trying to save this family,” Dante growled softly. “And you murdered her to save your dirty kickbacks.”
He nodded to Leo.
“Take them to the cellar,” Dante ordered, his tone devoid of all human warmth. “Federal prosecutors will receive the full financial ledgers and the coroner’s true report by dawn. They will spend the rest of their pathetic lives in a maximum-security federal cage.”
“Dante! No! Please!” Dominick sobbed as the guards dragged him and the bleeding Julian out of the room. “Dante!”
The heavy doors slammed shut.
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Dante stood alone in the quiet dining room. He looked at his hands—hands that had almost chosen murder, hands that had chosen justice instead because of a promises made to a waitress in a yellow apron.
He turned toward the east wing stairs.
