Chapter 18 - The Gathering of Wolves
The Grand St. Regis Club in Midtown was a relic of Gilded Age opulence—dark mahogany paneling, crystal chandeliers, and leather armchairs that smelled of Cuban cigars and hundred-year-old scotch.
To the public, it was an exclusive haven for Wall Street titans and retired senators. Tonight, however, the four private security details stationed outside the bronze double doors carried suppressed submachine guns beneath their tailored overcoats.
Inside the private cigar lounge on the top floor, four men sat around an antique poker table.
Don Carmine Lucchese, an obese, silver-haired man with dead eyes, blew a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. Across from him sat Vincent Moretti, the cold, calculating head of the Gambino syndicate, tapping a heavy gold lighter against the mahogany.
"It's two-fifteen," Moretti said, his voice flat and impatient. "The bird from Sicily hit the manor, and the blast in Montauk leveled a military installation. Rossi’s comms are dead. His soldiers are retreating to their compound like whipped dogs. He's dead, Carmine. Or he's in an ICU with a tube down his throat."
"Then the docks in Brooklyn belong to me," Lucchese growled, leaning forward. "And the concrete unions in the Bronx go to the Genovese. We take the territory tonight before the feds step in to freeze the assets."
"And what about Marcus Vance's girl?" asked Sal Genovese, a gaunt, nervous man who constantly checked his watch. "The rumor is Falcone wanted her alive for the Swiss accounts."
"If Falcone has her, she's already on a boat to Palermo," Moretti dismissed with a wave of his hand. "And if she's still in New York, she's a loose end. We find her, we put a bullet in the back of her head, and we bury her under the foundation of the new stadium."
"I’d like to see you try, Vincent."
The heavy oak doors of the cigar lounge didn't open—they were kicked open with concussive force.
Ten Rossi enforcers in full tactical armor poured into the room, their assault rifles raised, instantly locking their laser sights onto the heads of the four dons and their private bodyguards. The bodyguards reached for their jackets, but the sound of ten bolts chambering in unison froze them in their tracks.
"Nobody move," Enzo’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, his weapon leveled dead center at Lucchese’s forehead.
And then, stepping through the center of the armed formation, came me.
I hadn't washed off the grime. I wore a tailored black suit that Enzo’s team had procured from the Manhattan safehouse, my blonde hair pulled back tightly. The only jewelry I wore was the heavy gold wedding band on my left hand, and around my neck, hanging from a thin titanium chain, was Dominic's heavy signet ring—the seal of the Rossi syndicate.
In my right hand, I carried a heavy, black leather duffel bag.
I walked straight up to the poker table, the heels of my boots clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor in the dead silence of the room.
The four bosses stared at me in stunned, paralyzed disbelief.
"What the hell is this?" Lucchese sputtered, his cigar nearly falling from his mouth. "Who let this bitch in here?!"
I didn't answer. I unzipped the duffel bag, gripped it by the bottom, and upended it onto the green felt of the poker table.
A heavy, severed head rolled across the table, stopping directly against Moretti's scotch glass.
It was Falcone's lead mercenary commander, his eyes frozen in terror. Beside it dropped Don Roberto Falcone's solid silver walking cane, smeared with dried blood.
Genovese physically recoiled, knocking his chair back. Moretti stared at the grisly trophy, his face draining of all color.
"Roberto Falcone came to New York uninvited," I said, resting both of my hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward until my face was inches from Lucchese’s. My voice was smooth, quiet, and possessed an icy calm that terrified them far more than screaming ever could. "His strike team was eradicated. His operation in Montauk was burned to the ground. And Don Roberto is currently resting at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean."
"Where is Dominic?" Moretti managed to ask, his voice hoarse, his eyes darting frantically between me and Enzo.
"My husband is busy overseeing the restructuring of our foreign assets," I lied without blinking, staring down four of the most dangerous men in the country. "And he sent me to deliver a message."
I reached into my jacket, pulling out the pearl-handled pistol, and placed it gently on the table between us.
"The Rossi syndicate does not negotiate with vultures," I said. "Every inch of territory Dominic holds remains under Rossi control. If a single one of your soldiers steps across the border into Queens, Brooklyn, or the docks, we will not call a meeting. We will not ask for arbitration. We will burn your businesses, execute your lieutenants, and wipe your names out of the five boroughs."
Lucchese’s face turned purple with rage. "You arrogant little whore! You think because you wear a ring, you run this town?! You're Marcus Vance's runaway brat! You're nothing!"
Lucchese lunged his hand toward the weapon beneath his jacket.
He never cleared leather.
I picked up the pearl-handled pistol and fired a single round through the center of his mahogany table, shattering his scotch glass and blowing a hole through the floor inches from his polished Italian loafers.
The room froze. Lucchese’s hand stopped dead inside his coat, his eyes bulging in absolute terror.
"The next one goes between your eyes, Carmine," I whispered, the barrel of the smoking gun pointing straight at his forehead. "Does anyone else have an objection to the Rossi family’s sovereignty?"
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Moretti slowly raised both of his hands, placing them flat on the table. He looked at the severed head, then at the gold ring on my finger, and finally at Enzo's cold, unflinching men.
"No objection, Mrs. Rossi," Moretti said softly. "The territory remains unchanged."
I lowered the weapon, slipping it back into my pocket.
"Good," I said. "Now clear out. This club belongs to Dominic now."
Without waiting for their response, I turned on my heel and walked out of the lounge, flanked by Enzo and his men.
The moment we stepped into the private elevator and the heavy bronze doors slid shut, my knees gave out. Enzo caught me by the arm, supporting my weight as I leaned heavily against the mirrored wall, my breath coming in ragged, trembling gasps.
"You did it, Tessa," Enzo breathed, his eyes wide with utter awe. "God in heaven... you just broke the Five Families without firing a second shot."
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"Take me to Dominic," I gasped, clutching the signet ring against my chest. "Now, Enzo. Take me to my husband."
***
