Chapter 8 - The Reckoning of the Five
Dominic Rossi’s bodyguards reached for their shoulder holsters in unison, but they were a fraction of a second too late.
From the mezzanine gallery above and the hidden service doors around the perimeter, eight tactical operators from the Castellani security division stepped into view, their assault rifles leveled dead on the New York crew.
"Drop them," Hargrove commanded from the balcony.
The four bodyguards froze, their hands hovering over their lapels. Rossi’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, dangerous fury as he slowly turned his head toward the center of the room.
Enzo Castellani walked out from behind the heavy velvet curtains of the private lounge. He wore an all-black suit, his collar open, his gray eyes burning with an ungodly fire.
"Enzo," Rossi said, his voice dropping into a low, venomous growl. "I was told you were on a slab at Northwestern."
"You were told what you needed to hear to walk through those doors without twenty men behind you, Dominic," Enzo replied, walking slowly down the center aisle until he stood opposite the New York underboss.
Enzo reached out, picked up the crystal glass with the pink straw, and poured the vintage champagne until the foam reached the rim. He pushed the glass two inches closer to Rossi.
"Drink it," Enzo said.
Rossi stared at the glass, his jaw clenching. "You think you can execute an underboss of the Lucchesi family in your own dining room? The Commission will wipe the Castellani name off the map before the week is out."
"The Commission," Enzo said, pulling a tablet from his pocket and placing it flat on the table, "is currently watching this conversation live via secure satellite link."
The tablet screen lit up.
Divided into four quadrants were the live video feeds of the four senior patriarchs of the American mafia Commission—men from New York, Detroit, Philadelphia, and Boston.
"Don Salvatore," Enzo spoke clearly toward the microphone. "Is it the policy of the Commission to authorize the chemical assassination of six-year-old children during birthday dinners?"
On the screen, an elderly, silver-haired man seated in a dark study in Long Island leaned forward. Salvatore Lucchesi’s face was dark with fury.
"Dominic," Don Salvatore’s voice boomed through the tablet speakers, rough and gravelly. "I authorized a corporate acquisition of the Great Lakes shipping corridors. I did not authorize the murder of an innocent child. You acted without the council’s blessing, using poison like a coward in the dark."
Rossi’s face turned the color of ash. "Don Salvatore... it was a tactical miscalculation by the local manager—"
"The Commission does not tolerate men who disgrace our traditions," Salvatore interrupted, his tone carrying the finality of a guillotine. "Enzo Castellani has full jurisdiction to resolve this matter within his own territory. Your seat is vacated."
The screen went black.
Rossi slumped back in the leather chair, all the arrogance draining out of him, leaving behind a hollow, defeated man.
May you like
Enzo looked at Hargrove.
"Take them to the docks," Enzo commanded quietly. "Put them on the first freight container bound for the Atlantic. I never want to see their faces in the Midwest again."
