Chapter 8 - The Council of the Families
The meeting of the New England Commission took place in the basement of an old bakery in the North End—a room that smelled of anise, wood smoke, and fifty years of stale tobacco.
Six men sat around a long table of rough-sawn pine, each wearing the dark wool coat of an elder, their faces lined by the cold realities of a business that didn't allow for retirement. At the head of the table sat Leo Moretti, a forty-five-year-old with the slicked-back hair and silk tie of a New York operator.
"Vincent Vale is in the ground," Leo said, leaning forward and tapping a heavy gold ring against his saucer. "And his boy is spending his first week as boss buying crayons for an orphanage in Dorchester. He’s soft, gentlemen. He’s distracted by some bastard child his old man hid in the woods. The North End docks are doing forty percent less volume because his security detail is busy guarding a medical park in the valley."
The older man on his left, a seventy-year-old named Frank Capra who managed the gambling operations in East Boston, shook his head slowly. "Dominic isn't soft, Leo. He’s just quiet. There’s a difference. His father used to scream when he was angry. Dominic just looks at you until you forget what you were going to say."
"I don't care about his looks," Leo hissed, reaching into his pocket. "The New York families want stability. We want the shipping routes cleared. If Dominic is going to use the family trust to fund genetic research for a girl who shouldn't even exist, then we take the trust back."
The iron door at the rear of the bakery didn't bang open; it opened slowly, the old hinges screaming in the quiet room.
Dominic Vale stepped through the frame alone. He wasn't wearing his lab gown or his coat. He wore a simple black suit, his hands loose at his sides, his eyes fixed on Leo Moretti.
Behind him, the hallway remained dark, but the faint, metallic click of a dozen shotgun slides locking into place echoed through the brick corridor.
The six men at the table froze, two of them instinctively lifting their hands away from their waistbands.
"The shipping routes are clear, Leo," Dominic said, walking over to the table and standing directly behind Moretti’s chair. He didn't sit down. He laid his hands on Leo’s shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the muscle near the neck until the New York man’s posture went rigid. "They’re so clear that the container from Brooklyn you tried to slip through Pier 4 at midnight was seized by the federal authorities three hours ago. I gave them the manifest myself."
Leo tried to turn his head, but Dominic’s fingers tightened, anchoring him in place. "You gave the feds our manifest? You’re a rat, Vale! The Commission doesn't survive if we talk to the law!"
"I didn't talk to the law about the Commission, Leo," Dominic whispered, his voice dropping into that terrifying, rhythmic purr that made Frank Capra lean back in his chair. "I talked to them about you. The manifest listed four crates of specialized laboratory equipment stolen from the state university hospital last month. The kind of equipment used to disrupt cellular synthesis."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a single sheet of paper—the original agreement Vincent Vale had signed with the Harbor House endowment five years ago. He dropped it into Leo’s tea saucer.
"My father built this family on blood, gentlemen," Dominic said, looking around the table at the five elders. "But he spent his last five years trying to keep his own blood alive. That girl in Dorchester is a Vale. Her name isn't Carter; it’s Sophie Vale. And from this day forward, twenty-five percent of the family’s net maritime revenue is being moved into her foundation. If anyone at this table has a problem with the budget, they can discuss it with Noah downstairs. He’s currently clearing out the trunk of Leo’s car."
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Leo’s face went entirely white. He looked at Frank Capra, but the old gambling boss was already looking down at his own rings, his hands flat on the pine table in a gesture of absolute neutrality.
"The meeting is adjourned," Dominic said, releasing Leo’s shoulders. He didn't look back as he walked out the door. "Make sure you clean the saucers before the morning shift starts baking."
