Chapter 11 - The Council of Wolves
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The subterranean vault beneath the Moretti shipping offices on the Boston waterfront was lit only by dim wall sconces and the glow of heavy brass lamps.
A massive oval table of polished dark mahogany dominated the center of the reinforced room.
Seated around the table were the heads of the five major syndicates of New England—hardened, elderly men who had ruled the underworld for four decades through fear and blood.
At the far end of the table sat Mateo Moretti, wearing a tailored navy suit, sweating profusely despite the cool subterranean air.
The heavy vault door swung open with a deep mechanical groan, and the room went dead silent.
Anias Moretti walked into the chamber.
He wore a crisp black shirt with the left sleeve tailored to accommodate the thick white gauze wrapped tightly around his wounded shoulder.
He walked with the terrifying grace of an uninjured predator, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembled dons with absolute dominance.
Behind him walked Carmine, carrying a heavy metal briefcase and pushing an elderly, trembling Dr. Vance into the room.
Anias did not sit; he walked to the head of the table, placing his heavy palms flat upon the polished wood, leaning forward.
“Gentlemen,” Anias began, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of every man’s neck stand up.
“We are gathered here tonight because a serpent has violated the sacred omertà that has protected our families for a century.”
Mateo shifted in his leather chair, trying to muster a confident sneer.
“Anias, what is the meaning of this circus?” Mateo barked, though his voice wavered slightly.
“You call an emergency commission meeting because someone took a shot at you in a public park?”
“We are in the middle of a territory war with the Irish, and you’re acting like an amateur!”
Anias did not look at Mateo; he gave a sharp nod to Carmine.
Carmine slammed the metal briefcase onto the table, popping the latches open with a loud metallic snap.
He dumped the contents onto the mahogany surface: dozens of photographs, bank transfer statements, and the ballistic reports from the park shooting.
“Yesterday afternoon, two hitters attempted to execute my four-year-old son in Boston Common,” Anias announced, each word falling like an executioner’s axe.
A collective gasp echoed around the table; even the most ruthless mafiosos in the room looked visibly appalled.
In their code of honor, targeting women and children was a sin punishable by immediate death.
“And the money used to hire those two shooters came directly from a shell account in the Cayman Islands,” Anias continued, pointing a scarred finger at the financial papers.
“An account registered to Mateo Moretti.”
Mateo shot up from his seat, his chair toppling backward onto the stone floor with a loud crash.
“That is a lie!” Mateo screamed, his face contorted in panic.
“He’s fabricating evidence to consolidate power!”
Anias slowly turned his gaze upon Dr. Vance, who stood trembling beside Carmine.
“Tell them, Doctor,” Anias ordered softly.
With tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, Dr. Vance recounted the entire horrific tale: the forged clinic documents from five years ago, the fifty thousand dollars in cash, the threats to murder his grandchildren, and the staged disappearance of Nancy Cooper to eliminate Anias’s rightful heir.
The elderly capos stared at Mateo with expressions of pure, unadulterated disgust.
Don Corleone, the oldest capo in New England, slowly shook his white-haired head.
“You stole a father’s child, Mateo,” the old don whispered, his voice trembling with ancient fury.
“And you brought guns to a playground where an innocent boy played.”
“You are no longer a Moretti.”
“You are dead to this table.”
Mateo backed away toward the exit, his hand reaching desperately inside his jacket for a weapon he had been forced to surrender at the door.
“You can’t do this to me!” Mateo shrieked.
Anias straightened his posture, towering over the room like an angel of death.
May you like
“The commission has spoken,” Anias declared with absolute, final authority.
“Take him to the harbor.”
