Chapter 6 - The Summit in New YorkBy late November, the first chill of winter had settled over the East Coast, but in the executive boardroom of the Moretti Estate in upstate New York, the temperature was sweltering.
The annual Summit of the Five Families was the most dangerous political event of the year. Representatives from New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Boston, and Miami gathered behind reinforced steel doors to negotiate territory, settle disputes, and ratify maritime shipping rights for the upcoming fiscal year.
I walked down the grand marble hallway of the Moretti manor, wearing a tailored charcoal-grey pantsuit, my dark hair styled in a sleek, powerful wave, carrying a silver briefcase containing my operational audits.
Beside me walked Dominic, his hand resting securely in the small of my back, his presence radiating an impenetrable aura of dominance.
When the heavy oak doors of the boardroom swung open, twenty-one senior bosses and capos rose from their seats around the massive circular conference table.
In the past, the women of the syndicate—if they were allowed in the building at all—sat in the gallery behind velvet ropes, silent and invisible.
Today, Dominic pulled out the central leather chair directly to his right, motioning for me to take my seat among the most feared men in America.
As I sat down, a murmur rippled through the room. Several older capos from the Chicago outfit frowned, exchanging skeptical glances.
"Don Falcone," muttered Frank Maroni, a veteran boss from Boston with a jagged scar across his cheek. "With all due respect, we are here to discuss cross-border drug trafficking routes and port security allocations. Are we hosting a ladies' auxiliary meeting today?"
Before Dominic could open his mouth, I raised my hand.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't show anger. I simply unlocked my silver briefcase, pulled out a stack of pristine financial charts, and slid them across the circular table toward Maroni.
"Mr. Maroni," I spoke, my voice ringing with a cold, crystal-clear authority that made the room instantly drop into silence. "According to your port allocation filings for Boston, you claim a twelve percent loss on container transit due to weather damage off Cape Hatteras last month."
Maroni blinked, surprised. "That’s correct. Storms happen."
"Storms do happen," I agreed smoothly, tapping a red-circled figure on the chart. "However, satellite meteorological logs show zero oceanic turbulence off Cape Hatteras during those specific forty-eight hours. What actually happened is that your nephew diverted three containers of contraband through an unmonitored dock in Providence to pay off a gambling debt to the Irish mob."
Maroni’s face turned the color of curdled milk. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the document.
"Furthermore," I continued, looking around the circular table, locking eyes with each capo in turn, "if you examine page four of your briefing packets, you will see that Falcone Logistics has reorganized every primary shipping route along the Eastern Seaboard to eliminate those exact security leaks. My division now controls the digital tracking manifests for all five families."
The boardroom was so quiet you could hear the distant ticking of a grandfather clock in the foyer.
Don Salvatore Moretti, the elder statesman of New York, slowly leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, approving smile spreading across his weathered face. He looked at Dominic, then back at me.
May you like
"It appears," Salvatore rumbled, his voice dripping with deep respect, "that the Falcone family has acquired a very dangerous mind. We ratify the new shipping manifests. Unanimously."
Across the table, Dominic caught my eye, a fierce, burning pride shining in his dark gray eyes. He reached under the table, finding my hand and lacing his fingers tightly through mine.
