Chapter 11 - A KING'S PROTECTION
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By ten in the morning, the Grand Council of Chicago had convened inside the private ballroom of the Drake Hotel.
This was the highest tribunal of the syndicate, a gathering of the seven founding families who controlled every enterprise from the docks to the state legislature.
The room was lined with dark mahogany paneling, heavy green velvet draperies, and armed guards stationed every five paces.
At the center stood a massive horseshoe-shaped table of polished walnut.
Seated around it were the elder Dons, men in their sixties and seventies with cold, calculating eyes and billions in illicit assets.
At the center of the head table sat Don Falcone, the eighty-year-old chairman of the Commission, his gnarled hands resting on a gold-headed cane.
The double brass doors opened, and the room went completely silent.
Gabriel walked down the center aisle, wearing a tailored charcoal-gray suit with a black silk tie.
His presence was commanding, predatory, and impossible to ignore.
Beside him walked Catherine.
I was not wearing the plain champagne dress from the wedding reception.
I wore an elegant, custom-tailored black wool dress with long sleeves that concealed the fiberglass splint on my right arm.
Pinned to my left lapel was the ancient gold signet ring of the Romano matriarch—the very ring Gabriel had stripped from his mother’s finger four hours earlier.
Whispers broke out among the council members as we approached the center of the floor.
Never in the history of the Chicago Outfit had a wife stood beside a Don during a formal Commission tribunal.
Don Falcone raised his heavy cane, striking the Persian carpet twice to demand order.
The room silenced instantly.
“Don Gabriel,” Falcone rasped, his voice sounding like dry stones tumbling in a stream.
“You requested an emergency blood tribunal regarding the actions of the Marchesi family and your late uncle Vittorio.”
“Explain the smoke rising from Slip Four this morning.”
Gabriel did not bow.
He stood tall, resting his hand lightly against the small of my back.
“At midnight yesterday, Carlo Marchesi conspired with my uncle to commit high treason against the Romano bloodline,” Gabriel stated, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“They attempted to smuggle our founding nineteen-twenty-two silver from our vault to finance a coup.”
“They stationed hitmen outside the home of Thomas Hayes on Ashland Avenue.”
“And this morning, Carlo brought four vehicles of mercenaries to Slip Four to execute an illegal seizure of our municipal shipping berths.”
Falcone’s eyes narrowed behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“These are heavy accusations, Gabriel.”
“Where is your proof?”
Gabriel nodded toward Marco, who stepped forward and placed two heavy steel lockboxes onto the walnut table.
Marco popped the latches, revealing stacks of encrypted ledgers, signed wire transfers from Marchesi bank accounts, and Arthur’s audio confession.
Beside the documents, Marco placed the twelve restored pieces of the antique silver service, gleaming under the chandelier lights without a scratch.
“The evidence speaks for itself, Don Falcone,” Gabriel said coldly.
“Vittorio was killed by Marchesi’s own men during an ambush at the docks.”
“Carlo Marchesi is currently being held in my private cells awaiting this council’s judgment.”
The elder bosses leaned forward, examining the banking receipts and listening to the tape with growing disgust.
In the mafia world, business assassinations were tolerated; forging Commission deeds and hiring outside hitmen to murder family patriarchs was an unpardonable sin.
Don Falcone looked up from the ledgers, his gaze shifting slowly toward me.
“And why is this girl standing in our council chamber, Gabriel?” Falcone asked, his tone skeptical.
“Under our traditions, the women remain in the household.”
Gabriel took half a step forward, his voice dropping into a register that made the entire room hold its breath.
“Catherine is not just a woman of my household, Don Falcone,” Gabriel declared, his words ringing with absolute authority.
“She is the Donna of the Romano family.”
“When Arthur tried to steal that silver, she fought him with her bare hands until her bones fractured.”
“When Marchesi ambushed our motorcade at the docks this morning, she dropped an eighty-ton container onto their convoy and saved my life.”
The old Dons stared at me in stunned disbelief.
Gabriel reached out, taking my splinted right hand and lifting it for the entire council to see.
“My wife did not hide behind security doors.”
“She did not run to the kitchen when she was told she was unworthy.”
“She bled on the concrete to keep my empire whole.”
Gabriel lowered my hand, turning his fierce gaze across every boss seated at the table.
“From this day forward, Catherine speaks with my voice.”
“Her signature carries the weight of my seal.”
“And anyone in this city who disrespects her name will answer to my gun.”
Don Falcone looked at me for three long seconds.
Then, slowly, the ancient patriarch leaned back in his chair and smiled, tapping his cane once against the floor in deep respect.
“The Commission recognizes Donna Catherine Romano,” Falcone announced, his voice carrying the finality of law.
“And as for Carlo Marchesi...”
Falcone’s smile vanished, replaced by the cold shadow of death.
May you like
“Strip his family of their territory and give the docks to the Hayes company.”
“The council has spoken.”
