Chapter 9 - The Verdict of the Commission
At nine o'clock that morning, the Commission of the Five Families convened in the underground executive suite of the Plaza Hotel.
Twelve men—the most powerful syndicate leaders on the Eastern Seaboard—sat around a heavy marble table. At the far end sat Dominic Vance, the head of the Philadelphia family, looking confident and smug, flanked by two of his senior consiglieres.
"Where is Victor Moretti?" Vance declared, checking his diamond watch. "We were called here for an emergency vote regarding the Moretti leadership. If Victor is too sick to attend—"
The heavy brass doors of the vault room swung open.
Victor Moretti stepped into the room.
He did not walk like a sick man. He walked with the heavy, terrifying grace of a king entering his court, flanked by Frankie Varga and Dr. Marcus Thorne.
Behind them, two heavy enforcers dragged Julian Moretti into the room. Julian was in handcuffs, his face bruised, his expensive suit rumpled, weeping softly as he was shoved onto his knees in the center of the marble floor.
Dominic Vance stood up, his face draining of color instantly. "What is the meaning of this?"
Victor walked to the head of the table, leaning his hands flat against the cold marble, looking directly into Vance’s eyes.
"Dr. Thorne," Victor said softly. "Read the report."
For fifteen minutes, Dr. Thorne presented the chemical analysis of the Zurich neurotoxin, the video recordings of Julian’s confession taken in the dock holding rooms, and the bank transfer records showing three million dollars moving from Dominic Vance’s offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands directly to Julian Moretti’s private Swiss fund.
As the evidence was laid out piece by piece, the ten other bosses at the table grew deadly quiet. Their faces turned to stone.
In the underworld, war was business. Assassination was business. But poisoning a Boss from within his own house—using a slow chemical agent to drive a man insane—was a violation of the oldest, most sacred code of the syndicate.
The senior Chairman of the Commission, an eighty-year-old man named Don Carmine, stood up slowly from his seat.
"Dominic Vance," Carmine said, his old voice trembling with absolute, lethal disgust. "You used a coward to poison a sitting member of this table. You violated the Charter."
"Carmine, wait—" Vance panicked, stepping back, his eyes darting toward his bodyguards.
"Your territory in Philadelphia is forfeited," Carmine declared, waving his withered hand. "Effective immediately, the North Docks and the shipping routes are transferred to the Moretti family. And you have one hour to leave this city before the Commission puts a contract on your head."
Vance stumbled backward, his bodyguards abandoning him instantly as they realized the absolute finality of the verdict, leaving him standing alone, broken and ruined before the council.
Victor walked over to Vance, standing towering inches from his face.
"I spent three years in the dark, Dominic," Victor whispered, every word carrying the crushing, absolute weight of an iron door slamming shut. "If I ever see your face in New York again, I will make sure your end takes twice as long."
Dominic Vance turned and fled the room like a hunted dog.
Victor looked down at Julian, still weeping on the floor. He gave a single, quiet nod to Frankie Varga.
May you like
Frankie stepped forward, hauled Julian to his feet, and led him out through the rear exit toward the waiting dark sedans outside.
The war was over. The empire was secure.
