Chapter 6 - The Council of WolvesBy midnight, I had moved Elena and the boys to the safe house beneath the old Chicago meatpacking district—a subterranean fortress carved out of limestone decades ago during the Prohibition era, completely off the grid and impenetrable to satellite surveillance.
Rocco stood watch at the reinforced steel blast doors, while I sat at the head of a scarred oak conference table, reviewing the encrypted ledger we had recovered from Viktor’s laptop.
The data was explosive. It wasn't just a rogue faction within the Syndicate that had targeted my family; it was a unanimous resolution passed by the ruling council of the five Chicago families, signed off by Don Salvatore Marcone himself—the aging godfather who had supposedly retired from the board two years ago.
Marcone wanted the Moretti bloodline eradicated or co-opted to seize control of our lucrative port shipping lanes. He had used Viktor as his proxy, manipulating my internal security network from the shadows.
My cell phone vibrated sharply against the wood.
An unknown number. Encrypted satellite relay.
I slid my thumb across the screen and pressed it to my ear.
“Alejandro,” a raspy, gravelly voice echoed through the encrypted channel. Don Marcone. “I hear your estate had a rather messy break-in tonight. A shame about your foyer windows. Imported Italian marble isn't cheap these days.”
“You picked the wrong door to knock on, Salvatore,” I replied, my voice dangerously smooth.
“Did I?” Marcone chuckled softly, the sound like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “You think you’ve won because you swatted away a few low-level mercenaries? Wake up, boy. You have four little boys living on borrowed time. Every bank account, every shipping manifest, every warehouse you own has been frozen by the commission. You are a ghost walking in a city that belongs to us.”
“My accounts don't matter,” I said, leaning back in my chair, watching through the bulletproof glass partition as the four boys slept peacefully on a makeshift cot supervised by Elena. “My empire doesn't matter.”
“Oh?” Marcone’s tone shifted, turning cold and suspicious. “Then what does matter to the great Alejandro Moretti?”
“Your blood, Salvatore,” I whispered fiercely into the receiver. “You sent men into my home to touch my sons. For that, I am going to burn your entire syndicate to ash, starting with your penthouse on Lake Shore Drive.”
“You arrogant little—!”
I hung up, tossing the phone onto the table where it shattered against a ceramic ashtray.
May you like
Rocco stepped forward from the shadows of the doorway, his face grim. “Boss, the boys are secure, but Marcone’s right about one thing. The commission controls the dock unions and the federal judges. If we move on Marcone’s penthouse without backup, we’re walking into a slaughterhouse.”
“We’re not walking into a slaughterhouse, Rocco,” I said, standing up and reaching for my tactical vest. “We’re going to a family reunion.”
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