Chapter 3 - The Gathering of the Iron Council
By 3:00 AM, the storm had cleared, leaving the New York skyline bathed in a harsh, pale moonlight.
The main conference room on the second floor looked like a war room. Five senior capos—men who controlled the docks, the financial portfolios, and the street enforcement of the Moretti family—sat around the massive circular oak table. Standing behind them were their personal bodyguards, hands resting casually near their holstered firearms.
At the head of the table sat Victor Salvatore.
He had assumed command of the room before I even walked in. He wore his tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair neatly combed, pouring a cup of espresso as if he were hosting a routine board meeting.
When the heavy double doors finally swung open and I stepped into the room, every man at the table stood up instantly.
"Alessandro," Victor said smoothly, offering a polite, melancholic smile. "We were beginning to wonder if your heart condition had flared up again. You look pale."
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly to the head of the table, pulling out my chair, and sat down.
"Sit down, gentlemen," I commanded.
The capos exchanged uneasy glances before settling back into their seats. Victor remained standing, lingering just behind my right shoulder—the exact position he had occupied for twenty-five years.
"Victor," I said, resting my hands flat on the mahogany table. "Tell me about the heart medication I’ve been taking for the past three months."
Victor’s smile didn't waver. "It’s the standard beta-blocker prescribed by Dr. Vance, Alessandro. Designed to stabilize your arrhythmia. You know this. I manage your pharmacy refills personally to ensure your safety."
"And the dosage?" I asked.
"One pill every evening at eight-fifteen."
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the amber prescription bottle, and set it dead center on the table. The plastic container clicked against the polished wood.
"Strange," I murmured, leaning back in my chair. "Dr. Vance reviewed the chemical breakdown this morning. Those smaller yellowish pills you swapped in at 8:11 PM aren't beta-blockers, Victor. They’re a slow-acting neurotoxin. Cumulative. By the end of the week, they mimic a massive, fatal heart attack. Clean. Untraceable on a standard coroner’s tox screen unless specifically tested for heavy metals."
The room went dead silent. You could hear the distant hum of the estate’s generator.
Dominic, the capo overseeing the Brooklyn docks, slowly shifted his weight, his eyes darting between Victor and me. "Boss... what is he talking about?"
Victor sighed—a soft, theatrical sound of profound disappointment. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth.
"It’s tragic," Victor said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet pity. "You see, gentlemen? The Don’s mind is finally failing him. The paranoia of old age has set in. He’s imagining enemies where there are only loyal servants."
He looked around the table, meeting the eyes of the capos one by one.
"For twenty-five years, I have carried this family on my back," Victor continued, stepping slightly forward, his voice hardening with dangerous authority. "I kept him alive when the Colombos tried to poison his wine in '04. I managed the books when the feds closed in during '12. And now, because a maid’s five-year-old brat draws a crayon picture, he accuses me of treason?"
Victor slammed his palm onto the table.
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"The old man has lost his edge!" Victor shouted, drawing a heavy, suppressed automatic pistol from his shoulder holster with terrifying speed. "He is a liability to the Moretti name! Effective immediately, I am assuming control of the syndicate!"
Before Victor’s finger could even tighten around the trigger, the side doors of the conference room blew wide open.
