Chapter 7 - The Collapse of the House of Russo
The silence in the grand ballroom was so absolute you could hear the distant hum of traffic filtering through the heavy double-paned windows of the Plaza.
Carmine Russo stared down at the handwritten ledgers, his frail shoulders slumping as the last thirty years of lies, extortion, and stolen glory evaporated before his eyes. The gold-headed cane slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.
"It's... it's forged," Carmine whispered, though there was no fight left in his voice. It sounded like the pathetic plea of a ghost begging for sunrise. "A fabrication... Moretti, you can't—"
"The federal banking commission authenticated these watermarks this morning, Carmine," Julian said quietly, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "The original microfilms were recovered from an un-indexed vault in Zurich. Every signature matches. Every wire transfer is accounted for."
Around the mahogany table, the four Commission patriarchs exchanged dark, calculating glances. In the underworld, war was tolerated; betrayal of the council’s internal code was not. Framing a founding member was a capital offense, even among criminals.
"If these documents are authentic," the head arbiter of the Commission spoke slowly, his voice grave, "then the Russo family has forfeited all claims to the docks. Their territory, their assets, and their shipping lanes revert immediately to the Moretti syndicate."
"No!" Dante roared, snapping out of the paralyzed shock Julian’s grip had held him in. He shoved his chair back so hard it crashed against the gilded wall behind him. He reached inside his tailored suit jacket, his hand darting toward a concealed shoulder holster. "You think we're going to hand over everything we built to this bastard?! This is a setup! Kill them all!"
Before Dante’s fingers could even wrap around the grip of his pistol, Elias Vargas moved.
Elias didn't hesitate. He drew his firearm with lightning speed and fired a single, deafening shot that struck the crystal chandelier directly above Dante’s head.
CRASH!
A shower of crystal shards rained down over Dante like jagged diamonds. At the exact same second, the heavy double doors of the ballroom burst open, and six armed Moretti enforcers poured into the room, their submachine guns locked and leveled squarely at the Russo delegation.
Dante froze, his hand hovering near his empty holster, chest heaving, trapped in a sea of drawn weapons.
"Make one more move, Dante," Elias snarled, keeping his pistol aimed dead center at Dante’s chest. "I dare you."
Julian slowly stood up from his chair. He buttoned his suit jacket, smoothed his tie, and walked around the table until he stood mere inches away from the trembling young brute.
"Your uncle built an empire on lies, Dante," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "And you tried to maintain it with blood and noise. You thought power screamed. You thought brutality made you a king."
Julian raised his right hand and struck Dante across the face with the back of his knuckles—a crisp, echoing blow that sent the six-foot-five thug staggering back against the velvet drapes, blood splitting across his lower lip.
May you like
"Power," Julian whispered, stepping close enough for Dante to feel the frost in his breath, "is silence. And your time has run out."
Julian turned away, looking toward the Commission arbiters. "The meeting is concluded. Take the Russos out of my city."
