Chapter 6 - The Council of October
By nine o'clock on Thursday morning, the great dining hall on the main floor of the Moretti mansion had been converted into a courtroom.
The long table, carved from dark oak and capable of seating twenty-four people, was occupied by seven men.
They were the captains of the enterprise—men in their sixties and seventies who controlled the haulage companies, the cold-storage warehouses, the concrete plants, and the waterfront casinos. They sat in high-backed leather chairs, their faces lined with decades of suspicion, listening to the rain beat against the tall leaded windows.
At the head of the table sat Don Vincent, his silver-headed cane resting between his knees.
To his right sat Carlo Moretti. Carlo wore a thick neck brace under his shirt, his left arm was in a dark blue sling, and his face was covered in yellowing bruises. He looked like a man who had survived a high-speed traffic accident.
Standing at the far end of the hall, near the sideboard where silver platters of coffee and pastries sat untouched, were Elena, Sophia, and Dante Russo.
Titan lay on the rug beside Sophia’s feet. He wore a simple leather collar, his chin resting peacefully on his paws, though his ears twitched every time one of the men at the table raised his voice.
“This is an insult to this family!” Carlo’s voice cracked as he stood up, clutching his slung arm. “We are sitting here discussing business with a maid and her child in the room! Dante has gone rogue—he brought an unsanctioned animal into an executive meeting and used it to assault me in my cousin’s study!”
Don Vincent did not look at his son. He picked up a small silver spoon, tapped it three times against his porcelain teacup, and let the clear clink-clink-clink settle the room into silence.
“Carlo,” Vincent said softly. “You fell down the stairs in the East Wing.”
“Father—”
“You fell down the stairs,” the old man repeated, his dark eyes narrowing into two slits of cold obsidian. “Because if you didn't fall down the stairs, then you were in your cousin’s study at three in the morning while he lay in an ICU, trying to steal his master key before his body was cold. And if that is what happened, Carlo... then the family council doesn't hold a vote. The family council takes you down to the docks in a canvas sack.”
The room went entirely silent.
The six captains at the table looked down at their coffee cups, nobody saying a word to defend Carlo.
Don Vincent turned his head toward the end of the room.
“Dante.”
Dante stepped forward two paces. “Yes, Don Vincent.”
“Is the ledger safe?”
Dante reached inside his dark wool jacket, pulled out a thick, leather-bound volume sealed with a heavy brass clasp, and laid it flat on the oak table in front of Don Vincent. Beside it, he laid the small steel key attached to the blue silk cord.
“The ledger was removed from the floor safe at three fifteen this morning,” Dante reported clearly. “It has been in my personal custody, under guard, ever since. The key was retrieved by Sophia Castillo from the desk drawer where Adrian left it.”
One of the older captains—a man named Lucchesi who ran the fish piers in South Boston—leaned forward, his thick spectacles sliding down his nose as he looked at the five-year-old girl.
“The kid got the key?” Lucchesi asked.
“The kid got the key,” Dante confirmed. “While Titan stood guard.”
Lucchesi let out a low, rumbling laugh that sounded like a cold engine turning over. He looked across the table at Carlo’s bruises, then at the massive gray dog lying on the rug, and finally at Sophia, who was currently busy untying and re-tying the lace on her red canvas sneaker.
“The dog had three hundred pounds of muscle on him,” Lucchesi chuckled, shaking his head. “And he let a five-year-old take the keys to the kingdom.”
“He didn't just let her,” Dante said smoothly. “He followed her back to the guest suite and slept across her doorway all night.”
Don Vincent rested his hands on his silver cane. He looked at Elena, who was standing stiffly in her clean yellow dress, her fingers woven together in front of her apron.
“Mrs. Castillo,” Vincent said.
“Yes, sir?” Elena said, stepping forward.
“My nephew, Adrian, regained consciousness three hours ago at St. Jude’s,” the old man said. “Dr. Reynolds says he is speaking, his mind is clear, and his heart rate has stabilized. He will be returning to this house on Monday.”
Elena let out a long breath she didn't realize she was holding. “That’s wonderful news, sir.”
“He has already been informed of what transpired in his study on Tuesday morning,” Vincent continued. “He watched the security recording from the hallway on Dante’s phone half an hour ago.”
The old man paused, his dark eyes softening slightly as he looked at Sophia.
“Adrian wants to know why your daughter called his dog 'Barnaby.'”
Sophia looked up from her shoe lace, her big brown eyes shining bright.
“Because Titan is a name for a boat,” Sophia explained simply to the seven powerful men in the room. “Barnaby is a name for a dog who likes cookies.”
Two of the captains at the table burst into loud, uncharacteristic laughter. Lucchesi slapped his hand against the oak table, grinning broadly.
Even Don Vincent’s thin lips curled into a true, unmistakable smile.
“Barnaby it is,” Don Vincent said. He looked at Harrison, the lawyer sitting at the end of the table with his leather briefcase open.
“Harrison. Draft the paperwork.”
“What paperwork, Don Vincent?” Harrison asked, leaning forward with his gold pen ready.
“Mrs. Castillo is no longer on the housekeeping staff,” Vincent announced. His voice was firm, carrying through the high-ceilinged room with absolute authority. “She is now the Assistant Director of Household Security, reporting directly to Dante Russo, with an annual salary of ninety thousand dollars, full health coverage, and a residential stipend for the second-floor suite.”
Elena’s mouth opened. “Sir? I... I don't know anything about security—”
“You know how to control the only security asset in this house that matters,” Vincent said flatly, pointing his cane at Titan. “And your daughter’s education—private school, college, whatever she chooses—will be underwritten by the Moretti Foundation in perpetuity.”
Carlo stood up so fast his chair rattled against the floorboards. “Father! This is ridiculous! You’re giving estate privileges to a maid because her kid patted a dog!”
Don Vincent stood up slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, his small frame radiating a cold, ancient power that silenced the entire room in a single beat.
“I am giving privileges to the people who protected my nephew’s life and his honour while my own blood was trying to pick his pockets,” Vincent said in a low, lethal whisper.
He looked at the two guards standing behind Carlo.
“Take Carlo down to the cottage by the South Gate. He stays there until Adrian comes home. If he tries to leave the property, use the catch-poles.”
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Carlo’s face went white. He looked at the captains at the table, but every single man looked away, staring down at their polished wood desks.
The guards stepped forward, took Carlo by his arms, and led him out of the dining hall, his boots dragging uselessly against the Persian rug.
