Chapter 6 - The Council Gathering
At 8:00 PM, the underground sanctuary beneath the Moretti Estate was filled with twenty high-ranking captains and lieutenants of the Chicago Outfit.
Heavy mahogany tables were arranged in a horseshoe shape, illuminated by hanging copper lamps. The room smelled of smoke, old whiskey, and tension.
Marco Romano sat near the end of the table, wearing a crisp black suit, looking proud and arrogant. He was leaning over to another captain, boasting about his expanded trade routes.
"My wife turned out to be a fragile weakling," Marco was telling the man beside him with a smirk. "Couldn't even handle a simple birth. Ran off to her relatives like a thief in the night."
The captain chuckled nervously. "And the babies?"
"Two girls," Marco sneered, waving his hand dismissively. "Good riddance. I'll find a younger woman next month who can give me a real heir."
Suddenly, the heavy iron double doors at the end of the hall swung open with a deafening crash.
Silence fell over the room instantly. Every captain stood up out of respect.
Salvatore Moretti walked down the central aisle. He did not wear his usual business suit; instead, he wore a dark leather tactical jacket, his hands resting casually inside his pockets. Behind him walked six heavy enforcers carrying automatic weapons.
"Sit," Salvatore commanded smoothly.
The captains sat down immediately.
Salvatore walked up to the head of the table, resting his hands on the carved mahogany surface, his hazel eyes scanning the men until they locked onto Marco Romano.
Marco straightened his tie, offering a subservient grin. "Don Salvatore. We were just waiting for you to begin the territorial distributions."
"There will be no distribution tonight, Marco," Salvatore said softly.
Marco’s smile faded slightly. "Boss? Is there a problem?"
Salvatore leaned forward, his voice echoing off the stone walls like thunder.
"Last night, a woman came to my gate bleeding from her face, her ribs broken, carrying two four-day-old infant girls wrapped in pink blankets."
The air in the room instantly turned to ice.
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Marco’s face drained of all color. His knuckles turned white against the table. "Don Salvatore... I... I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Do not lie to me, Marco!" Salvatore roared, slamming his palm onto the oak table so hard the glasses rattled. "You beat your wife within an inch of her life because she gave you twin daughters!"
