Chapter 7 - The Commission Assembles
The Italian Cultural Center in Near West Side Chicago was a grand, neo-classical building featuring marble columns, velvet-draped dining halls, and a long, dark history of hosting the highest-level meetings of the American Mafia.
By 1:45 PM, the private parking lot behind the center was filled with armored luxury sedans guarded by dozens of sharp-eyed enforcers holding hidden weapons beneath heavy overcoats.
Inside the grand council chamber, a long mahogany table sat beneath a massive crystal chandelier. Seated around the table were eleven men—the capos and dons controlling organized crime across Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin.
At the head of the table sat Frank Rossi, looking immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit, a thick diamond pinky ring glistening under the chandelier light. Beside him sat his daughter, Isabella, looking stony-faced and pale, her eyes fixed on the polished wood.
Sitting three seats down was Bernardo Moretti, who had arrived ten minutes earlier, smelling faintly of smoke, a satisfied, arrogant smile plastered across his face.
Frank Rossi struck the heavy wooden gavel against the table, calling the council to order.
"Gentlemen," Frank began, his loud, boisterous voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room. "We are gathered today on a matter of urgent stability for our entire syndicate. As you all know, Lorenzo Moretti was designated as head of the Moretti family following Carmine's death last year."
The bosses nodded slowly, smoking cigars and sipping espresso.
"However," Frank continued, his tone turning grave and performatively disappointed, "over the last twenty-four hours, Lorenzo has demonstrated profound instability. He has broken a formal matrimonial contract with my family. He has brought a mentally unstable woman into his house—a woman who was condemned five years ago for stealing ten million dollars of syndicate capital. And most tragically..."
Frank paused, looking toward Bernardo with an expression of manufactured grief.
"...we have just received word that forty minutes ago, a gas explosion destroyed the Moretti estate in Geneva. Lorenzo Moretti and his associates were inside. They did not survive."
A sudden gasp rippled through the room. Several bosses straightened up in their chairs, murmuring in shock.
Isabella Rossi let out a short, quiet breath, her hands folding tightly in her lap.
Bernardo Moretti stood up slowly, placing his large hands flat on the table, assuming a posture of natural leadership. "It is a tragedy for my family," Bernardo said, his voice laced with fake sorrow. "Lorenzo was young, reckless, and hasty. As Carmine's brother, I am prepared to step into the void immediately, assume control of the Moretti territory, and honor the original alliance with the Rossi family."
"Hear, hear," Frank Rossi said, raising his glass. "I move that the Commission formally recognize Bernardo Moretti as the Don of the Moretti family—"
BOOM!
The massive, double oak doors of the council chamber were blown inward with such violence that the iron hinges snapped like twigs, crashing onto the marble floor in a cloud of dust and splintered wood.
The eleven bosses jumped to their feet, their bodyguards instantly drawing weapons from their jackets.
Through the dust and smoke, a tall figure stepped into the doorway.
Lorenzo Moretti stood tall, wearing a fresh, pitch-black suit, his coat open, his icy blue eyes sweeping the room with lethal disdain.
Flanking him on his left was Gino, holding an assault weapon at his waist.
And walking proudly on his right, dressed in a stunning, high-collared burgundy velvet gown, her auburn hair styled in an elegant, royal updo, was Beatrice Moretti.
She wore no diamonds. She wore no fur. But her posture was so regal, her hazel eyes so fierce and unflinching, that every man in the room felt instinctively as though a queen had just walked into the court.
Frank Rossi dropped his glass. It shattered against the marble floor.
Bernardo’s face turned a sickening, ghostly shade of gray, his knees knocking against the mahogany chair.
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"Lorenzo...?" Frank stammered, his voice squeaking. "You... you were in Geneva..."
"I was," Lorenzo said, his voice echoing through the silent chamber like thunder over a valley. "Your fire was a bit drafty, Frank. My wife preferred the heat in here."
