Chapter 6 - The Council of Blood
The truce summit was called for a Thursday evening at the neutral territory of the Grand Belvedere Hotel in Manhattan.
By syndicate law, when two major families entered a dispute that threatened to disrupt the city's commerce, the Commission convened a formal council. Victor Costa had invoked the ancient charter, demanding that Dominic present his new bride to prove the marriage was legitimate and not an illegal annexation of Julian Kelly's hidden assets.
In the dressing room of the estate, Isabella stood behind me, fastening a necklace of brilliant-cut emeralds around my throat. The deep green stones shimmered against the high neckline of my black velvet gown, chosen specifically to conceal the surgical scars along my collarbone and back.
"You do not have to do this, Clara," Isabella murmured, meeting my reflection in the gilded mirror. "Dominic can go alone with his captains. He will burn Manhattan to the ground before he lets Costa lay a finger on you."
I placed my hand over the heavy gold ring on my finger.
Three weeks ago, I had been a frightened, exhausted girl serving drinks to people who looked through me. But tonight, knowing the truth about my father, knowing the sacrifices made to keep me alive, fear was no longer an option.
"My father didn't run from Victor Costa," I said quietly, turning to face her. "And neither will I."
When I walked down the grand staircase, Dominic was waiting at the foot of the steps. He was clad in a bespoke three-piece black suit, his dark hair immaculately groomed, an overcoat draped over his broad shoulders. When he saw me, his expression locked into an intensity so profound it made the air feel thin.
He extended his arm. "Ready, Mrs. Rossi?"
"Ready," I answered, placing my gloved hand inside the crook of his elbow.
A motorcade of four armored SUVs delivered us to the Grand Belvedere. As we entered the grand private dining hall on the fiftieth floor, thirty men in dark suits fell completely silent. At the far end of the immense dining table sat the heads of the Five Families, their aged faces etched with decades of ruthlessness.
And sitting at the center, looking like an aging serpent in a tailored charcoal suit, was Victor Costa.
Costa’s slicked-back gray hair and predatory dark eyes tracked every step I took as Dominic led me to the vacant chairs at the head of the table.
"Dominic," Costa sneered, leaning back with a glass of scotch. "You look remarkably composed for a man whose empire is one spark away from an inferno. And this... this must be the little bird from the catering staff."
Dominic pulled out my chair, waiting until I was comfortably seated before sitting down beside me. He didn't acknowledge Costa's insult. He simply signaled the waiter to pour sparkling water into my crystal glass.
"You called a council, Victor," Dominic said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "Speak your business so I can take my wife home."
Costa leaned forward, his smile turning vicious. "My business is simple. Julian Kelly stole fifty million dollars from the syndicate before he died. For ten years, that money has sat dormant. Now, miraculously, his daughter reappears, takes seven bullets for Isabella Rossi, and wakes up with a wedding ring? It’s a convenient fairy tale, Dominic. You married a wounded nobody to bypass the Commission’s claim to those funds!"
A murmur of agreement rippled among Costa’s loyal captains along the table.
Before Dominic could speak, I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the white linen tablecloth. The emeralds at my neck caught the crystal chandeliers, flashing like green fire.
"A nobody, Mr. Costa?" I asked, my voice ringing clear and calm through the vaulted room.
Costa's eyes narrowed. "Know your place, girl. This table is for family heads."
"My father built the financial infrastructure that three of the families at this table still use to launder their overseas logistics," I said, meeting Costa’s sneer with a steady, unblinking glare. "He wasn't a thief. He was a man of honor who refused to hand over his legitimate partners' assets to a backstabbing butcher who murdered his own don in his sleep."
A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed across the hall. Two of the older dons exchanged shocked, appreciative glances.
Costa slammed his glass onto the table, shattering the base. Red wine spread across the white cloth like fresh arterial blood. "You insolent little—"
In a movement so fast the eye could barely track it, Dominic’s sidearm was out. The muzzle was pressed firmly against the center of Victor Costa’s forehead before the older man could even draw breath.
Across the room, thirty men drew their weapons in unison, the deafening clack-clack-clack of chambering rounds filling the hall with impending slaughter.
Dominic didn't look at the guns pointed at him. His eyes were locked solely on Costa’s pale face.
"Say one more word to my wife," Dominic whispered, his tone so calm it was terrifying, "and this table becomes your mausoleum, Victor. The fifty million belongs to Clara. If any man at this table has an objection, speak now—or spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder."
Silence descended on the room like a burial shroud. None of the other dons moved. None of them spoke.
May you like
After five agonizing seconds, Dominic clicked the safety back on his weapon and tucked it back inside his jacket. He turned to me, offering his hand with royal courtesy.
"Dinner is over, darling," Dominic said softly. "Let’s go home."
