Chapter 7 - The Gathering at the Drake
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a masterpiece of old-world Chicago opulence—crystal chandeliers, gilded plasterwork, and massive mahogany doors.
At 7:45 PM, the room was filled with thirty of the most powerful people in the Midwest underworld. Captains, street bosses, union leaders, and the elderly consigliere of the Viscardi family sat around a massive oval banquet table.
Sitting at the head of the table, flanked by four heavily armed bodyguards, was Santino Russo. Beside him sat Camila, wearing a white diamond gown that looked like starlight against her dark hair.
Santino clinked his silver spoon against his crystal glass, standing up to address the room.
"Brothers," Santino began, his voice projecting easily across the grand hall. "We gather tonight under heavy hearts. As many of you have heard, our beloved Don, Lorenzo Moretti, was brutally ambushed in Manhattan earlier today by unknown assailants."
A collective murmur rippled through the room. Carmine sat near the middle of the table, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye, while Gianna—a tough, middle-aged captain who controlled the south side transit—stared at Santino with deep suspicion.
"Lorenzo was a great leader," Santino continued, putting a hand over his heart. "But in these dark times, we cannot allow our family to remain leaderless. With the blessing of Mrs. Camila Moretti, and with the support of the Viscardi elders, I am stepping forward to assume the mantle of Don."
"Is his body even cold yet, Santino?" Gianna challenged, her voice cutting through the room like a whip. "You haven't even brought his remains back from New York, and you're already sitting in his chair?"
"The family requires stability, Gianna!" Camila interjected sharply, stepping up beside Santino. "My husband would have wanted us to protect the empire, not squabble over protocol!"
"Your husband would have wanted you to find his killers before you put his ring on another man's finger," a deep, resonant voice echoed from the back of the ballroom.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open with a thunderous bang.
The entire room went dead silent.
Walking through the threshold, flanked by Mateo and ten veteran soldiers carrying tactical weapons, was Lorenzo Moretti.
He was dressed in a tailored double-breasted black suit, his overcoat draped over his shoulders, looking every bit the ruthless monarch of Chicago. Walking half a step behind his left shoulder, dressed in a simple, elegant black dress, was Sophie Vance.
Santino’s glass shattered on the floor as his hand convulsed in pure terror. Camila’s face drained of all color, her lips parting in a silent, horrified gasp.
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"L-Lorenzo..." Santino stuttered, stepping back, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun concealed beneath his coat.
"Sit down, Santino," Lorenzo said smoothly, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor as he walked down the center aisle. "You are still just an underboss in this house."
