Chapter 8 - The Commission Gathering
Thursday morning arrived with a clear, brutal winter light that turned the waters of Lake Michigan into a sheet of silver glass. The grand dining room of the Lombardi estate was filled with thirty of the most powerful syndicate bosses, legal advisors, and labor union representatives from Detroit, Cleveland, and Milwaukee.
The air was heavy with the scent of dark espresso, high-end tobacco, and an unspoken, electric tension. Everyone had heard the rumors that had leaked from the estate over the weekend, but no one knew what to believe.
I stood in the service pantry behind the main dining room, watching through the small glass viewing portal. My hands were gripped tightly around a portable automated external defibrillator, just in case Sebastian's autonomic system collapsed under the pressure of the day.
Sebastian sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his armored wheelchair locked into position, his expression a mask of pure, unyielding stone. Don Maroni sat to his right, his eyes fixed on his coffee cup, completely silent.
"The distribution routes through the railyards are changing, Sebastian," the head of the Detroit family, a massive, brutal man named Viktor Kross, said, slamming his heavy fist against the table. "We’ve been paying twenty percent to the Lombardi family for twenty years because your father kept the tracks clear. But you? You haven't left this house in a decade. The streets are getting messy, Sebastian. We think it’s time the commission redistributes the territory."
Several bosses murmured in agreement, their eyes darting toward Sebastian to see if his grip on the table would loosen.
Sebastian didn't answer immediately. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his espresso, setting the cup down on the porcelain saucer with a clean, clear ring that silenced the room.
Then, he unlocked his wheelchair.
With a slow, powerful movement, Sebastian placed both of his feet flat against the Persian rug beneath the table. His hands gripped the edge of the mahogany wood, his chest expanding as he forced the neural pathways to lock his quadriceps and core stabilization muscles into position.
He stood up.
He didn't use a cane. He didn't use a walker. He stood at his full, imposing height of six feet two inches, his shadow stretching across the length of the table, enveloping Viktor Kross.
The entire boardroom went completely, utterly breathless. Two junior captains from Milwaukee stood up from their chairs in pure shock, their hands instinctively dropping toward their holsters before they realized where they were. Viktor Kross’s mouth opened slightly, his brutal confidence instantly evaporating as he looked up into the eyes of the man he had just threatened.
"You think the streets are getting messy, Viktor?" Sebastian said, his voice carrying a deep, resonant rumble that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. "The tracks are clear because I allow them to be clear. The territory stays exactly where it is. And the price for the Detroit route... just went up thirty percent."
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He stood there for ten full seconds, a monument of sheer human will and medical defiance, before he slowly, smoothly lowered himself back into his chair, his expression never changing.
"The meeting is adjourned," Sebastian said. "Pay the new rate by Friday morning, or find another city to dump your product."
