Chapter 6 - The Gathering Storm
The night of the summit arrived under a blanket of heavy, blinding fog that rolled off the Providence River, wrapping the mansion in a cold, white shroud.
Inside the grand ballroom, forty heavy oak chairs had been arranged in a wide circle around a burning fireplace.
Armed men in dark coats stood at every entrance, their hands resting on hidden holsters. The air was thick with the smells of cigar smoke, leather jackets, and damp wool.
At the far end of the room, near the wide windows, Nadia stood with Milo, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She was wearing a simple dark blue dress Salvatore had bought for her from a local boutique. Milo was dressed in a warm woolen sweater, holding his wooden soldier tightly against his chest.
“Nadia,” Salvatore called softly from his wheelchair.
Nadia walked over to him, her eyes wide with concern. “Salvatore, please... there are so many dangerous men here tonight. Let me take Milo upstairs.”
Salvatore looked up at her. He reached out, his large hand gently clasping hers.
“You stay where I can see you, Nadia,” Salvatore said softly, his thumb tracing the warm skin of her wrist. “Tonight, the snakes come out of the grass. I need my strength where I can look at it.”
Nadia looked into his gray eyes and saw no fear—only a quiet, absolute devotion that made her knees feel weak.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, squeezing his hand back.
The grand double doors of the ballroom swung open.
A heavy hush fell over the forty lieutenants and capos gathered in the room.
Walking into the ballroom, surrounded by ten heavily armed bodyguards, was Aldo Bianchi.
Bianchi was forty-five, tall, thin, with a sharp hooked nose and cold, predatory eyes. He wore a white mink coat over a black silk suit, a wide, arrogant smile on his face.
Walking beside him, looking smug and triumphant, was Gianni Ferraro.
“Salvatore!” Bianchi called out, his loud, raspy voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Look at you! Sitting in your little rolling throne like an old king in a nursing home!”
Gianni chuckled softly beside him, taking a drag from his cigar.
Salvatore sat completely still in his wheelchair, his hands folded neutrally in his lap.
“Aldo,” Salvatore said smoothly. “You’re standing in my father’s house wearing a coat bought with stolen money.”
Bianchi’s smile faded slightly, his narrow eyes sweeping over the forty capos standing in the room.
“I came here for my surrender papers, Sal,” Bianchi said, stepping into the center of the floor. “Gianni said you were ready to give up the docks, the shipping routes, and the Federal Hill properties in exchange for a monthly pension.”
Bianchi sneered, looking over at Nadia and Milo standing near the window.
“And maybe,” Bianchi added, his tone dripping with dark malice, “I’ll let you keep your pretty little maid to wipe your chin when you drool.”
Gianni laughed loudly.
A dangerous, low rumble rose from the capos in the room, but no one moved yet; they were waiting to see what the Wolf would do.
Salvatore did not shout. He did not curse.
He slowly raised his right hand, making a small gesture to Dominic, who stood near the side wall.
Dominic flipped a switch on the wall console.
The heavy steel security shutters over every window in the ballroom descended with a sharp, hydraulic CLANG, sealing the entire room off from the outside world.
The heavy double doors behind Bianchi clicked locked with three heavy magnetic bolts.
Bianchi’s ten bodyguards instantly reached for their shoulder holsters, their eyes darting around the sealed room in sudden panic.
“What is this, Caruso?” Bianchi snarled, his voice losing its arrogant edge. “You think you can trap us in here?”
Salvatore looked at his cousin Gianni.
“Gianni,” Salvatore said softly. “Do you remember the rule my father taught us when we were boys?”
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Gianni swallowed hard, taking a half-step behind Bianchi’s broad frame. “What rule?”
“Never betray a man,” Salvatore whispered, “who knows where all your bodies are buried.”
