Chapter 9 - THE TRIBUNAL OF ELDERS
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St. Anthony’s Parish Hall stood like an ancient stone fortress in the heart of the old Italian district.
By eleven-thirty, thirty black luxury sedans had filled the private courtyard behind the cathedral.
Dozens of armed enforcers in dark overcoats stood stationed at every arched window and iron gate.
Inside the vast, vaulted hall, fifty senior capos, family elders, and district bosses sat around a massive U-shaped wooden table.
At the center sat Uncle Carmine, flanked by Don Falcone and Don Lucchese—the triumvirate of the Chicago Commission.
The atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke, tension, and the heavy weight of an impending judgment.
At exactly twelve o’clock, the heavy oak doors at the back of the hall swung open with a resonant thud.
The room instantly fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
Luca Moretti walked down the center aisle, looking every inch the supreme sovereign of the city.
He wore a bespoke black three-piece suit, his overcoat draped over his broad shoulders, his presence commanding absolute obedience.
Walking firmly beside him was not an armed bodyguard or a syndicate underboss.
It was me.
Luca had refused to let me wear my uniform.
Instead, Mrs. Carter had brought me a stunning midnight-blue silk dress from the estate’s private wardrobe suite.
The dress was modest, elegant, and cut with immaculate precision, falling in soft folds around my ankles.
My hair was styled in an elegant chignon, secured with an antique pearl pin that Teresa had personally placed in my hair before we left.
I held Luca’s arm, my head held high, though my heart was beating like a war drum in my chest.
Walking behind us, flanked by Marco and four armed soldiers, was Michael Moretti.
Michael wore a plain gray prison jumpsuit, his hands shackled in front of him with heavy steel chains.
His face was bruised, his eyes bloodshot, and his head hung in complete, utter disgrace.
Luca stopped at the head of the tribunal table, facing the three senior elders.
He pulled out the heavy carved chair beside him and waited until I was gracefully seated.
Then he turned to face the fifty most dangerous men in the state of Illinois.
“Elders of the Commission,” Luca announced, his deep voice echoing effortlessly into the stone rafters.
“Four years ago, Don Roberto Moretti was murdered in his own bed.”
“We were told it was his heart.”
“We were told God had called him home.”
Luca stepped toward his kneeling brother, looking down at him with cold, pitiless disgust.
“The man who poured the digitalis into our father’s tea was Salvatore Bellini’s daughter.”
“And the man who unlocked the bedroom door was my own brother, Michael.”
A collective roar of outrage erupted from the seated capos.
Don Falcone, an eighty-year-old boss who had known Roberto for fifty years, slammed his heavy signet ring against the wood.
“Treason!” Falcone shouted, his gravelly voice trembling with rage.
“High treason against the founding bloodline!”
Uncle Carmine raised his hand, silencing the hall with an iron glare.
“Michael Moretti,” Carmine said, looking down at the weeping man in chains.
“Do you deny this confession?”
Michael shook his head slowly, tears dripping from his chin onto the stone floor.
“I don't deny it,” Michael choked out.
“I was a fool... I wanted the power... I wanted what Luca had...”
Luca stepped forward, pulling a heavy silver revolver from his waistband.
The room held its breath, expecting an immediate execution on the parish floor.
Instead, Luca set the weapon down in the center of the wooden table, pushing it toward Uncle Carmine.
“Michael’s blood will not stain this holy ground,” Luca stated, his voice ringing with absolute authority.
“The Commission will strip him of the Moretti name.”
“He will be delivered to the federal correctional facility in Marion under a sealed indictment.”
“He will spend the rest of his natural life in an eight-by-ten cell, forgotten by the family he betrayed.”
Uncle Carmine nodded slowly, picking up the revolver and placing it in his drawer.
“It is agreed,” Carmine declared.
“Michael Moretti is dead to this city.”
Two federal marshals stepped out from the side chapel, hauling Michael to his feet and dragging him through the side exit into the rain.
Then Uncle Carmine turned his piercing gaze toward me.
“And this young woman, Luca?” Carmine asked, his voice softening with curiosity.
“Who is she to this table?”
Luca stepped back to my chair, placing his large, warm hand firmly over mine.
He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of every boss and capo in the hall.
“This is Hannah Collins,” Luca proclaimed with fierce, unwavering pride.
“She is the woman who saved my mother’s life when my own blood sought to destroy her.”
“She is the daughter of Sarah Vance, who served my father with honor for twenty-five years.”
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Luca looked down at me, his dark eyes glowing with a truth that silenced every man in the room.
“And she is the only woman who will ever sit at the head of the Moretti table beside me.”
