Chapter 8 - THE COMMISSION’S VERDICT
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Salvatore Bellini scrambled backward, his chair scraping violently against the hardwood.
“It’s a lie! He fabricated the documents to justify breaking our alliance!”
Salvatore looked desperately down the table at Don Falcone and Don Lucchese.
“Brothers, you know me! I’ve served this council for thirty years!”
“You’re going to let a thirty-five-year-old hothead destroy my family over a maid’s daughter?!”
Don Falcone slowly set his reading glasses onto the table.
The elderly boss looked at the photograph of the child restraint harness recovered from the van.
Then, he looked up at Ellie, who was sitting quietly in her ivory dress, swinging her small patent-leather shoes.
“Article Seven of the Chicago Charter was written in 1952 by Vittorio Moretti and my father,” Falcone said, his voice raspy and ancient.
“The families may war over territory.”
“We may fight over ports, casinos, and politicians.”
“But the women and children of any household under a Don’s roof are untouchable.”
Falcone turned his cold, rheumy eyes onto Salvatore.
“You sent armed men to take a child from under Moretti’s roof, Salvatore.”
“That is not a domestic dispute.”
“That is high treason against the bloodline.”
Don Lucchese, seated on the right, nodded in grave agreement.
“The evidence is absolute,” Lucchese stated.
“The drivers identified Vanessa’s personal cell phone as the source of the dispatch orders.”
Luca stepped back to the head of the table, standing behind my chair.
He placed one hand lightly on my shoulder, an unmistakable declaration of protection that every man in the room understood instantly.
“I do not ask the Commission for permission to wage war,” Luca stated, his deep voice commanding the entire hall.
“I inform the Commission of the sentence.”
He looked directly at Salvatore.
“The Bellini family is stripped of all rank, all voting rights, and all port access in the state of Illinois.”
“Your properties on Lake Shore Drive are seized by the Moretti trust to pay restitution to Madison and Ellie Reed.”
Salvatore gasped, his chest heaving as if he were suffocating.
“You’re taking my home?!”
“I am taking everything you own,” Luca replied pitilessly.
“You and Vanessa have until six o'clock tonight to board a commercial flight out of O’Hare International.”
“If either of you is seen within the city limits of Chicago after the sun sets, my men have standing orders to bury you beneath the asphalt of the south docks.”
Salvatore looked around the table, searching for an ally, a friend, or a merciful face.
Not a single boss met his gaze.
Every man looked down at their hands or turned their heads away.
The Bellini dynasty was dead.
Two armed Moretti enforcers stepped up behind Salvatore, seizing him by his coat collar and hauling him roughly to his feet.
“Get him out of my sight,” Luca commanded.
Salvatore cursed and thrashed, but his voice was drowned out by the heavy clatter of doors opening and closing.
When the room fell silent again, Don Falcone slowly pushed his chair back and stood up.
The elderly boss walked around the table, stopping in front of where I sat.
My heart pounded with anxiety, but I held my head high, remembering Luca’s words about courage.
Don Falcone looked at me, then at Ellie, who gave him a shy, polite little smile.
The old mafia patriarch bowed his head in deep, solemn respect.
“Welcome to the table, Donna Madison,” Falcone said formally.
“May God grant peace to your house.”
One by one, every boss in that room rose from their chairs, bowing their heads in submission to the new reality of Chicago.
Luca looked down at me, his dark eyes brimming with a fierce, quiet pride that made my soul sing.
He offered his hand to me once more.
May you like
“Come, Madison,” Luca whispered.
“Let’s take our daughter home.”
