Chapter 13 - The Meeting of the Bosses
While Julian was breaching the Bedford perimeter, an emergency gathering was taking place inside the basement vault of a restaurant in Little Italy.
The Commission—the five aging patriarchs who governed the Italian-American crime families across the Eastern Seaboard—had convened in secret.
They had received fragmented reports of gunfire at the Newark docks and the mysterious financial freeze on the Moretti syndicate accounts.
At the head of the mahogany table sat Don Carmine, a seventy-year-old traditionalist who had known Julian’s father four decades ago.
The door to the private dining vault opened, and Damian’s primary legal associate, a corrupt attorney named Vance senior, stepped into the room.
“The rumors from Miami are confirmed, gentlemen,” the attorney lied smoothly, presenting a fabricated death certificate stamped by a bribed Florida medical examiner.
“Julian Moretti was killed in an automobile explosion at 18:00 hours yesterday; as his designated second, Damian Vance assumes temporary control of the syndicate.”
Don Carmine looked at the death certificate with sharp, skeptical eyes, his weathered hands resting flat against the polished wood of the table.
“If Julian is dead, why are his waterfront crews currently executing Calabrese soldiers across the five boroughs?” the old Don demanded coldly.
“Those are rogue elements resisting the lawful transition of leadership!” the attorney argued, sweating under the intense scrutiny of the five bosses.
“Damian requests the Commission’s formal recognition so he can use syndicate resources to restore order at the shipping ports immediately!”
Before Don Carmine could utter a response, the heavy oak doors of the restaurant basement burst open with blinding, terrifying force.
Two armed Calabrese guards stationed outside stumbled into the room, disarmed and bleeding, followed by ten heavily armed Moretti tactical enforcers.
The five bosses reached for their weapons, but stopped completely frozen as a tall, imposing figure in a snow-dusted coat stepped through the doorway.
It was Julian Moretti.
He looked completely unharmed, his dark gray suit immaculate beneath his overcoat, his eyes burning with an authority that sucked the air from the room.
“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated, Carmine,” Julian said, his smooth baritone carrying effortlessly across the silent vault.
The corrupt attorney let out a choked gasp of pure terror, stumbling backward until his legs hit a serving tray, sending glasses crashing to the floor.
“Julian!” Don Carmine exclaimed, standing up from his chair with a wide, genuine smile of relief breaking across his weathered face.
“We were just being told that your bones were sitting in a Florida morgue!”
“My wife and my second-in-command attempted to assassinate me in Miami to sell our waterfront operations to the Calabrese family,” Julian stated clearly.
He walked to the table, tossing the encrypted flash drive containing Damian’s treasonous financial communications directly onto the mahogany wood.
“I have already neutralized their strike teams at the docks, and I am currently surrounding my own estate to finish the cleanup.”
Julian looked around the table, meeting the eyes of each of the five patriarchs with a cold, unshakeable challenge that demanded absolute submission.
“If any family at this table has pledged support to Damian Vance or his Calabrese allies, speak now so I can dig your graves alongside theirs.”
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The room remained dead silent; not a single boss moved a muscle or raised a voice against the undisputed king of New York.
“Your house is yours to clean, Julian,” Don Carmine declared solemnly, nodding his head in absolute respect. “The Commission sees nothing.”
