Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Syndicate
The air inside the private office of the Lombardi estate was thick with the scent of expensive cigar smoke and old leather. It was Monday night, three days before the commission meeting, and the cracks in the empire were beginning to show.
I was standing in the corridor near the kitchen, carrying a fresh bottle of therapeutic liniment, when I heard voices coming from the secondary library. The door was slightly ajar.
"He’s losing his focus, Marco," a raspy, old-money voice hissed from inside the room. It belonged to Don Joseph Maroni, the head of the city's oldest faction and a man who had been a contemporary of Sebastian’s father. "My drivers reported that three shipments of pharmaceuticals from the East Coast were delayed at the rail yard because Sebastian didn't sign the clearance orders this morning. He was 'unavailable' in the west wing. What is he doing in there with that physical therapist?"
"He’s undergoing a specialized medical treatment, Joseph," Marco’s voice replied, smooth and calculating. "It’s an internal matter. The distribution routes are secure."
"Don't lie to me, boy," Maroni growled, the sound of his heavy cane hitting the floor emphasizing his words. "Word on the street is that he brought a woman in from some back-alley clinic to perform miracles. The men are getting restless. If Sebastian is losing his mind to some delusion that he’s going to walk again, he’s a liability. The Commission doesn't want a king who is distracted by his own legs. There are rumors that his father’s old rivals in Detroit are already sizing up the North Side docks."
"The Commission has nothing to worry about," Marco said, his voice dropping into a lower, darker register. "The treatment will be concluded by Thursday. One way or another. If Sebastian cannot stand at that meeting... I will ensure the transition of power to the board is executed smoothly. Without bloodshed."
I pulled back into the shadows, my heart hammering against my ribs. Marco wasn't just an advisor; he was a vulture waiting for Sebastian to fail. If Sebastian didn't stand up on Thursday, Marco was prepared to hand the keys to the Lombardi empire over to the very men who had spent twenty years trying to destroy it.
I hurried back to the west wing, my mind racing. I needed to tell Sebastian, but as I entered his suite, I found him sitting by the bed where Oliver was sleeping.
Sebastian was holding a small, wooden toy car—one that Oliver had left on the nightstand—turning it over in his large, scarred hands. He looked up as I entered, the brutal crime boss entirely absent from his face.
"Your son is an interesting kid, Clara," Sebastian said softly, setting the toy down. "He asked me why my chair didn't have rockets on it. He thought that if you're going to be stuck in a vehicle, it should at least be fast."
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"He doesn't know who you are, Sebastian," I said, walking over to check Oliver’s oxygen levels. "To him, you're just the man with the big house who has a beautiful tree in the yard."
"Good," Sebastian said, standing up using his arms, his legs dangling as he transferred himself to the parallel bars I had set up near the closet. "Because for twenty years, everyone who looked at me saw a crown or a target. Your son just saw a man. Let's get to work, Clara. I heard the old man whispering in the library tonight. Maroni is here. We don't have until Thursday. We have until tomorrow morning."
