Chapter 6 - The Council of Wolves
The Grand Ballroom of the Palmer House Hilton was bathed in the warm, deceptive glow of crystal chandeliers and string quartets.
It was the annual Autumn Gala for the Chicago Children’s Hospital—a high-society event where corrupt politicians, corporate raiders, and syndicate lords rubbed shoulders over champagne flutes and caviar blinis while the local press snapped photographs for the society pages.
I wore a floor-length gown of midnight-blue velvet, cut low at the shoulders, exposing the crescent-moon birthmark on my collarbone. Around my neck hung a teardrop sapphire necklace worth more than the entire hospital wing where my mother had once languished.
Beside me walked Salvatore Constantino.
He wore a bespoke tuxedo of midnight wool, his silver hair catching the light, his hand resting securely at the small of my back. He walked with the effortless, uncontested authority of an emperor inspecting his provinces.
Every conversation in the ballroom died as we entered.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass.
“Is that her?”
“The waitress from Giovanni’s?”
“He’s nearly sixty... what is he doing with a girl from the South End?”
“They say he cleared her debts overnight... the old man has completely lost his senses.”
Salvatore didn't glance at them. He didn't adjust his posture by a millimeter. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his breath warm and steady.
“Keep your chin up, little bird,” he murmured. “They whisper because they are terrified. They want to believe I am weak so they don't have to face the reality of what happens when I strike back.”
At the center of the ballroom, standing near the champagne fountain, was Vincent Moretti.
He was thirty-two, handsome in that slick, entitled way of young men born into wealth they hadn't bled to build. He wore an expensive white tuxedo, flanked by four men whose eyes darted around the room with nervous tension.
When Vincent saw Salvatore approaching—alive, uninjured, accompanied by the woman who was supposed to have burned in the Lake Forest estate—his champagne flute wavered in his grip.
“Godfather,” Vincent said, forcing a broad, theatrical smile that didn't reach his cold blue eyes. “We heard... there was a terrible incident at the estate last night. We were terrified you had been harmed.”
Salvatore stopped three feet away. The space between them became an Arctic wasteland.
“Were you terrified, Vincent?” Salvatore asked, his voice low, melodic, and devastatingly clear. “Or were you disappointed that the call from New York never came?”
Vincent’s smile stiffened into a grotesque mask. “I don't understand what you mean, Salvatore. We are family.”
“Family does not open the gate for hyenas,” Salvatore said.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper folded into thirds. He tapped it against Vincent’s chest.
“The port authority terminal lease at Pier 40,” Salvatore said softly. “The one you signed over to Sal Bertinelli at three o'clock yesterday afternoon in exchange for a twenty percent stake in their Manhattan distribution lines.”
Vincent’s face drained of all color. He looked around wildly, realizing for the first time that the guards stationed at the ballroom exits were no longer his men. They were Salvatore’s veteran capos, standing with their hands folded over their lapels, their faces carved of stone.
“Salvatore, wait,” Vincent stammered, his bravado evaporating into pathetic, frantic terror. “It was business! The Commission said you were stepping back! They said you were distracted by—by this little tramp!”
Crack.
The sound echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a whip.
It wasn't Salvatore who struck him.
It was me.
My open palm hit Vincent’s cheek with every ounce of fury I had stored inside me for fourteen months. The force of the slap sent him stumbling backward into a marble pillar, his champagne flute shattering across the polished floorboards.
The entire ballroom fell into a dead, horrified silence.
I stepped forward, my dark velvet skirt brushing against the broken crystal, my eyes burning into Vincent’s face.
“My name is Lily Alvarez,” I said, my voice carrying over the crowd with absolute clarity. “And if you ever call me a tramp again, I won't use my hand. I’ll let Salvatore use his.”
Beside me, Salvatore looked down at me. A slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile spread across his face—the look of a king who had finally found his queen.
May you like
He turned back to Vincent, his voice dropping into the finality of a grave.
“Take him to the harbor,” Salvatore ordered his men. “The meeting is adjourned.”
