Chapter 8 - THE SENTENCE OF EXILE
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The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel felt like a tomb before the stone was rolled into place.
Alberto Bellini stood frozen beside his chair, his breathing ragged, his yellowed eyes darting frantically toward his eight bodyguards.
His men, however, did not draw their weapons.
They were seasoned syndicate soldiers who knew the brutal rules of their world.
To draw a weapon against Don Carmine Falcone in a formal Commission tribunal was a death sentence that extended to every member of a man’s family.
They kept their hands flat against their sides, keeping their eyes trained strictly on the polished parquet floor.
Vanessa was weeping openly now, her face buried in her hands, her designer composure completely shattered.
Don Falcone looked across the circular table at the other three ruling bosses of Chicago: Don Morello of the North Side, Don Lucchesi of the river wards, and Don Castiglione of the southern shipping corridor.
“You have reviewed the medical evidence and the arson reports, brothers,” Falcone said, his voice echoing off the high plaster ceilings.
“How does the council rule on the house of Bellini?”
Don Morello, a silver-haired man who had lost his own grandson to syndicate violence a decade earlier, leaned forward with cold eyes.
“Guilty of treason against blood,” Morello stated without hesitation.
“Guilty,” Don Lucchesi agreed, nodding slowly.
“Guilty,” Don Castiglione added, his voice heavy with finality.
Don Falcone turned his gaze back to Alberto Bellini.
“Alberto Bellini,” Falcone proclaimed, striking his gold cane against the floor with a concussive thud.
“By unanimous decree of the Chicago Commission, your family name is stripped of all territorial jurisdiction.”
“Your shipping contracts at the Calumet docks are hereby seized and transferred to the Moretti foundation.”
“Your trucking routes on the West Side are revoked.”
“And you and your daughter are granted seventy-two hours to liquidate your private residential assets and leave the state of Illinois forever.”
Alberto’s mouth fell open in utter, horrified disbelief.
“Exile?” Alberto choked out, his voice cracking with hysteria.
“You are exiling me from the city my grandfather helped build?”
“You are fortunate I do not order you buried beneath the docks you tried to burn, Alberto,” Falcone replied coldly.
“If you or Vanessa are found within the borders of Cook County after midnight on Sunday, you will be treated as rogue outlaws.”
“Anyone who takes your heads will receive a million-dollar bounty paid from the Commission’s central treasury.”
Vanessa let out a high-pitched wail of pure despair, sliding down the side of her chair until she was kneeling on the floor.
Alberto looked at Dominic, his face contorted in an ugly, venomous mask of pure hatred.
“You think you’ve won, Moretti?” Alberto snarled, spit flying from his lips.
“You think you can raise a maid’s adopted brat as a princess in this city?”
“The streets will never respect her!”
“They will always see her as a bastard who crawled out of a charity ward!”
Dominic stepped forward, passing Maisie gently into my arms.
He walked straight up to Alberto Bellini until the two men were separated by mere inches.
Dominic did not shout.
He did not raise a fist.
He leaned down, whispering words so low and lethal that only Alberto could hear them.
Whatever Dominic said, the effect was instantaneous.
The blood drained completely from Alberto’s face, leaving him as pale as a corpse.
His knees buckled slightly, and he had to catch the edge of the walnut table to prevent himself from collapsing beside his daughter.
Dominic turned his back on the broken old man and walked back to where Maisie and I stood.
He offered his left arm to me, his dark eyes warm, proud, and entirely untroubled by the storm he had just unleashed.
“Let’s go home, Claire,” Dominic said softly.
I took his arm, holding Maisie securely against my hip.
As we walked down the center aisle of the ballroom, every boss at that table rose to his feet in silent, unanimous respect.
The doors swung open, and we stepped out into the bright, crisp autumn sunshine of Michigan Avenue.
May you like
The war for Maisie’s future had been fought in the shadows of the Drake Hotel.
And the maid who had spent four years cleaning floors for forty-three dollars in her bank account had just walked out as the most protected woman in Chicago.
