Chapter 6 - The Commission Summit
The high-rise penthouse in Midtown Manhattan was the traditional neutral ground for the five families of New York. Heavy rain slicked the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting the neon lights of the city below. Five powerful men sat around an antique mahogany table, flanked by armed guards.
When Alessandro Moretti walked into the room, a collective hush fell over the syndicate bosses. He didn't wear tactical gear tonight; he wore a bespoke charcoal Italian suit, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. Beside him walked Marco, holding a leather briefcase.
Don Carmine, the oldest boss on the Commission, cleared his throat. "Alessandro. You eliminated Victor Falcone. He was a loose cannon, but his territory remains. The street says you're weak, driven mad by grief over Isabella."
Alessandro walked to the head of the table, resting his hands on the back of the central chair—the seat traditionally reserved for the Capo di Tutti Capi (Boss of All Bosses).
"Do I look weak to you, Carmine?" Alessandro asked, his voice low and dangerous, carrying through the quiet room.
"You spent eleven months hiding on Long Island," another boss, Paulie Vance, snorted. "You let a woman’s death paralyze the strongest family in New York. Why should we hand you the Commission?"
Alessandro signaled Marco. Marco opened the briefcase, pulling out five thick ledger files, tossing one in front of each boss.
"Those are the complete financial records, offshore accounts, and illegal operations of every man in this room," Alessandro stated coolly. "I spent the last eleven months quietly acquiring seventy percent of your debt, your supply lines, and your corrupt political contacts. I didn't hide. I prepared."
The bosses flipped through the pages, their faces turning pale as they realized the extent of Alessandro’s leverage.
"I am not taking the Crown to wage war," Alessandro continued, leaning over the table. "I am taking it to enforce order. The era of reckless blood feuds, targeting families, and spilling blood on public streets is over. If anyone in this room targets an innocent—a wife, a child, a civilian—I will not just kill them. I will erase their bloodline from history. Is that understood?"
Silence stretched across the room. One by one, the five bosses nodded in quiet submission. Don Carmine stood up, raising his glass of crystal whiskey.
"To Alessandro Moretti. The Don of New York."
Alessandro didn't drink. He simply gave a curt nod. He had won the war, secured his empire, and established absolute authority. But as he exited the penthouse and stepped into his armored sedan, he didn't feel victorious. He felt eager to go home.
"To the Long Island estate, Boss?" the driver asked.
May you like
"No," Alessandro said, looking out at the city lights. "To the townhome on Upper East Side. I bought it yesterday."
He was done living in a fortress built on his father's violent legacy. It was time to build a home.
