Chapter 5 - Reclaiming the Throne
The high-stakes council of the Five Families was held in the private, soundproofed ballroom of The Grand Regent hotel on Park Avenue.
It was a room filled with old men who smelled of expensive tobacco and ancient sins. Vincent Moretti sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a smug, victorious smile on his weathered face. He had already distributed his version of the story to the other bosses: Maxim Rosetti had fled the city after his own men revolted against his weak leadership.
"The Rosetti territory needs to be partitioned," Moretti said, tapping his gold ring against the table. "Maxim is either dead in a ditch or hiding like a dog. The family has no leadership. The books are a mess."
"The books are actually perfect, Vincent," a voice boomed from the back of the ballroom.
The heavy double doors swung open.
Maxim Rosetti walked into the room. He wore a brand-new, charcoal-black suit, his posture straight, his eyes burning with a lethal, absolute confidence. The silver threads in his hair gleamed under the crystal chandeliers. The older bosses gasped, several of them reaching toward their jackets before noticing the row of heavily armed, loyal Rosetti soldiers stepping into the room behind him.
But it wasn't Maxim who made the room go completely silent.
It was the woman walking beside him.
Adelaide Callahan wore a simple, professional black dress that didn't hide her size; it weaponized it. She walked with her shoulders back, her face calm, carrying a thick stack of printed ledgers beneath her arm like a shield. She looked like a judge arriving at a sentencing.
Vincent Moretti let out a loud, mocking laugh, though his eyes darted nervously toward the exits. "What is this, Maxim? You brought a fat waitress from Queens to a council of war? Has the Rosetti family sunk so low that you're hiring your kitchen staff as muscle?"
Several of the younger capos laughed, but the older bosses stayed quiet, sensing the trap before it snapped shut.
Bee didn't look angry. She walked right up to the center of the table, slammed the heavy ledgers down in front of Vincent Moretti, and leaned forward until her face was just inches from his.
"The name is Bee, you small-time thief," she said, her voice echoing through the silent ballroom with the authority of a woman who had spent fifteen years controlling rows of angry truck drivers in a crowded diner. "And before you comment on my dress again, you might want to open page forty-two of that file."
Moretti frowned, his fingers trembling slightly as he opened the folder.
"That's a complete log of every transaction from the Palermo container run over the last three years," Bee continued, her voice clear and precise. "Including the secret offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands registered under your wife’s maiden name. You haven't just been siphoning from the Rosettis, Vincent. You’ve been skimming ten percent off the top of the Commission’s shared transit fund. You’ve been stealing from every single man sitting at this table."
The room erupted.
The bosses of the Lucchesi and Genovese families stood up, their faces contorted with fury as they looked at the numbers Bee had highlighted in bright red ink. The evidence was irrefutable—clean, mathematically perfect, and completely devastating.
"She's lying!" Moretti shrieked, his face turning a sickly white as his own bodyguards stepped away from him, realizing he was already a dead man walking. "This is a fabrication! A setup!"
"The numbers don't lie, Vincent," Maxim said, stepping forward and placing his hand gently on Bee’s shoulder. The gesture was simple, but it told the entire underworld of New York everything they needed to know: this woman was untouched, revered, and part of the throne.
"The commission rules are clear," Maxim continued, looking around the table at the other bosses. "The penalty for stealing from the table is liquidation of all assets. The Moretti territory is now Rosetti territory. Do we have a vote?"
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One by one, the old men of the commission raised their hands.
Vincent Moretti was dragged out of the room by his own men, his screams of protest fading down the marble corridor until the heavy doors shut, leaving only the sound of rain against the high glass windows.
