Chapter 7 - The Manhattan Council
By Friday afternoon, the boardrooms of Manhattan were vibrating with rumors.
Word had spread through the underground syndicates from Queens to the financial district: Ricardo Moretti had suffered a sudden, severe medical emergency at his nephew’s estate and was stepping down from all operational duties effective immediately.
And Dominic Moretti—the paralyzed mafia boss whom everyone had written off as a permanent casualty—was holding court.
The black town car pulled up to the curb outside the limestone headquarters on Madison Avenue at 2:00 PM sharp.
The driver hurried to the rear door, extending his hand, but Dominic waved him off.
Using a pair of custom forearm crutches that had been delivered by a medical specialist three hours earlier, Dominic swung himself out of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk.
His legs were still numb. His lower back screamed with white-hot pain with every shift of his weight.
But he was standing.
Not walking independently, not running the docks as he once had, but standing upright under his own power, supported by steel, carbon fiber, and sheer, uncompromising willpower.
The security guards at the glass entrance froze.
The senior partners of the Moretti shipping syndicate—men who had spent the last two hours quietly dividing up the spoils of his empire—stared in stunned silence as the glass double doors parted.
Dominic moved down the marble hallway with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his crutches striking the floor in a steady, metronomic beat that echoed off the high ceilings.
He entered the grand conference room without knocking.
Seventeen men sat around the twelve-foot mahogany table.
At the head of the table sat Thomas Moretti, Ricardo’s eldest son, who had already assumed his father’s chair.
Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat when he saw the cold, dead-eyed stare of his cousin standing in the doorway.
Dominic didn't say a word.
He walked to the head of the table, planted his left crutch firmly against the carpet, and lowered himself into the leather executive chair with the smooth, practiced grace of a man who belonged there by right of blood and steel.
He placed the black-bound ledger squarely in the center of the polished wood.
“The accounts in Zurich have been audited,” Dominic said, his voice cutting through the silent room like a razor blade. “The shipments from Brooklyn are running twenty percent ahead of schedule. And my uncle is currently resting at a private sanatorium in upstate New York, reflecting on the brevity of his career.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“Does anyone have a question about the operating proxies?”
May you like
Seventeen men stared down at their portfolios.
Not a single hand went up.
