Chapter 9 - The Union Hall
The Maritime Union Hall on Decatur Street was a imposing stone structure built in 1920, smelling of old tobacco, river salt, and decades of backroom political deals.
At 9:00 PM on Thursday night, thirty men in dark suits sat around a massive oak conference table on the second floor. At the head of the table sat Matteo Moretti—a fat, greedy man with silver rings on every finger, sipping scotch from a crystal glass.
The heavy double doors of the hall swung open.
Alessandro Romano walked into the room. He wore a tailored black suit, his left arm resting comfortably in a subtle black silk sling.
And standing right beside him, her hand tucked securely into the crook of his right arm, was me.
I wore a sleek, elegant dark-green dress that Alessandro had sent to my apartment that afternoon, my hair swept up in a neat, professional style. I held my head high, walking across the hardwood floor with absolute, quiet confidence.
The room went dead silent. Thirty mob bosses and union directors stared in utter shock as Alessandro Romano walked into their trap accompanied by a stunning, calm woman who looked at them as though they were nothing more than unruly customers in a diner.
Matteo Moretti sneered, setting his scotch down. “What is this, Romano? You brought a date to a territorial council?”
Alessandro stopped at the foot of the long table, his dark eyes cold as winter ice. He didn't sit down.
“I brought a partner,” Alessandro said, his gravelly voice filling the large hall with authority. “Clara Davis. She runs the foundation that controls sixty percent of the dockworkers' health trusts in this district.”
Moretti blinked, caught completely off guard. He looked at me, then at his lieutenants, who were quickly checking their tablets.
I stepped forward half an inch, looking straight into Moretti’s greedy eyes.
“The dockworkers signed the new benefit agreements twenty minutes ago, Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice steady, clear, and unyielding. “If your trucks block Pier 14 tomorrow morning, three hundred union stevedores walk off the ships. Your cargo rots on the water, and your investors lose two million dollars by noon.”
Moretti’s face turned bright red. “You... you can't do that! You’re a nobody!”
“She’s the woman who put ninety-seven dollars back in my hand when I thought I owned this city,” Alessandro said, stepping beside me, his presence looming over the table like a storm cloud. “And if you speak to her in that tone again, Matteo, you won't leave this hall on your feet.”
Moretti looked at the thirty men around the table. None of them moved to support him. The union directors were already nodding in agreement with my terms, recognizing that a dock shutdown would ruin them all.
May you like
Moretti slammed his hand against the table, but he sat down, utterly defeated. “The pier stays open,” he muttered, looking away.
Alessandro looked down at me, a brilliant, rare smile touching his lips. “Let’s go home, Clara.”
