Chapter 9 - The Last Supper
The meeting was set for Sunday evening at the Old Wharf Pavilion—a neutral, historic banquet hall on the edge of Boston Harbor that had been used for peace summits between rival crime factions for fifty years.
The rain had returned, beating against the high arched windows like drumbeats of war.
Around the horseshoe table sat eight men: Gabriel Hayes, Marcus Vane, four senior syndicate capos, and two representatives of the Mexican cartel dressed in bespoke Italian suits.
Norah stood behind Gabriel, wearing her dark apron, holding a silver tray with eight covered porcelain bowls.
Marcus Vane looked smug, confident that his plan to force Gabriel into abdication was nearing its triumphant conclusion. He had brought twenty armed men who were currently stationed outside the perimeter, unaware that four federal tactical teams were already surrounding the docks in silence.
“Gabriel,” Vane said, tapping his gold signet ring against the mahogany. “We are glad you agreed to this summit. The family cannot survive in hiding. We need a clear division of territory. The ports go to our new partners, and you retire to your estate in Florida with full honors.”
Gabriel leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, his face an impenetrable mask of cold granite.
“Before we discuss territory, Marcus,” Gabriel said smoothly, “we observe tradition. We break bread together.”
Gabriel gestured to Norah.
Norah stepped forward. One by one, she placed a steaming bowl before each man at the table.
When she lifted the silver covers, the rich, intoxicating aroma of stracotto filled the room—roasted garlic, seared beef, rich wine, and that unmistakable, delicate whisper of thyme and cinnamon.
Vane looked down at the stew, his smile faltering slightly. “Peasant food, Gabriel? At a peace summit?”
“It is the food of my mother, Marcus,” Gabriel said, picking up his spoon. “The food that built this family. In our tradition, if a man shares his mother’s meal with his brothers, he swears an oath of absolute honesty before God.”
Gabriel took a large, deliberate spoonful of the stew and swallowed it.
The other capos, bound by the ancient ritual of the syndicate, picked up their spoons and began to eat. Murmurs of appreciation rippled through the table; the rich, unpretentious flavor was undeniably magnificent.
Only Marcus Vane hesitated.
His spoon hovered over the dark gravy. His eyes darted to Norah, who stood with her hands folded, watching him with calm, unblinking certainty.
“Eat, Marcus,” Gabriel commanded softly. “Unless you believe there is something in the bowl that shouldn't be there.”
Vane’s hand began to shake. “I’m not hungry, Gabriel.”
“Eat,” Gabriel repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifying, absolute register that made every capo at the table stop chewing. “Or are you afraid that someone has treated your food the way you treated Paulie’s risotto?”
Vane dropped the spoon. It clattered loudly against the porcelain.
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“You’re insane,” Vane hissed, reaching inside his jacket for his weapon. “Kill him!”
Before Vane’s hand could clear his lapel, the double oak doors of the pavilion were blown off their hinges with explosive breaching charges.
