Chapter 4 - The Commission Sit-Down
Tuesday arrived under a heavy, charcoal sky that threatened rain over Chicago.
At 11:30 AM, a procession of six black luxury SUVs pulled through the grand iron gates of the Moretti estate. The vehicles parked in a neat line along the circular driveway, their engines idling like low-pitched thunder.
Out of the vehicles stepped twelve men—the five senior captains of the Moretti family, accompanied by Dominic Genovese and his heavily armed bodyguards. They wore tailored wool coats, fedoras, and expressions of grim, calculated purpose.
They entered the main mansion foyer, where Marco Bellini met them.
“Is he inside?” Dominic asked, adjusting his Italian leather gloves.
“In the main library,” Marco replied quietly. “He’s waiting for you.”
Dominic nodded, exchange a brief, silent look with Marco—a look that confirmed their secret deal. The five captains followed behind, their hands resting near their jacket buttons, uncertain of what was about to happen, but fully aware that power was about to shift in the city.
The doors to the grand library—a massive two-story room lined with thousands of leather-bound books, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive marble fireplace—were pushed open.
At the far end of the room, behind an immense mahogany conference table, sat Alessandro Moretti.
He was wearing a custom, midnight-black three-piece suit, his hair neatly combed back, his dark eyes fixed on the entrance. His wheelchair was positioned behind the center of the table, partially concealed by the dark wood.
Dominic Genovese walked in first, stepping onto the plush Persian rug with an air of absolute authority, followed by the five Moretti captains: Frank Russo, Silvio Vance, Paulie Carmine, Leo Testa, and Joey "The Hammer" Bruno.
“Alessandro,” Dominic spoke, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “It’s been a long time.”
“Dominic,” Alessandro replied coldly, his voice smooth as silk and heavy as iron. “I don't recall inviting the head of the Genovese family to a private Moretti commission meeting.”
Dominic chuckled, taking a seat at the head of the long conference table without waiting for an invitation. The five captains took their seats along the sides, looking uncomfortable, avoiding Alessandro’s direct gaze.
“Times change, Alessandro,” Dominic said, leaning back and resting his hands on the polished wood. “Your captains invited me here because they’re concerned about the future of this organization. You haven't been seen on the streets in two years. You haven't attended a single territory distribution meeting. The family is bleeding money, and the young guys are getting restless.”
Alessandro’s eyes shifted slowly away from Dominic, landing on his five captains.
“Is this true, Frank?” Alessandro asked softly, looking at his eldest captain. “Do you feel I have failed you?”
Frank Russo shuffled uncomfortably in his leather chair, looking down at his manicured fingernails. “Boss... it’s not personal. But a family needs a leader who is active. A leader who can move, who can meet people face-to-face, who can enforce order.”
“A leader who isn't stuck in a chair,” Dominic added bluntly.
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. The fire crackled softly in the massive marble fireplace, throwing long, dancing shadows across the room.
“So,” Alessandro murmured, resting his elbows on the table, folding his large hands together. “What is the proposal?”
Dominic stood up, reaching inside his coat to pull out a single sheet of paper, placing it on the center of the table.
“A peaceful retirement,” Dominic announced. “You sign over full operational authority of the Moretti syndicate to Marco Bellini. You retain twenty percent of the casino revenue, you keep this house, and you live out your days peacefully. If you sign, we all leave here as brothers. If you refuse...” Dominic paused, his smile disappearing, replaced by cold steel, “...we vote you out today, and you lose everything. Including this house.”
Alessandro looked down at the document on the table.
Then he looked at Marco Bellini, who was standing quietly by the library doors, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Marco,” Alessandro spoke softly, his voice dangerously gentle. “Did you draft this agreement?”
Marco didn't look up. “It’s for the good of the family, Boss. You’re done. You’ve been done since the accident.”
A quiet, chill breeze seemed to sweep through the room.
Alessandro slowly let out a long, deep breath.
Then, he placed both of his massive hands flat on the polished mahogany table.
Slowly, deliberately, the heavy leather executive chair rolled back a few inches.
The men at the table watched, confused, as Alessandro leaned his upper body forward. His chest expanded, his neck muscles straining as he engaged every core muscle in his torso.
Then, with a smooth, fluid, and terrifyingly powerful motion, Alessandro Moretti stood up.
The room gasped as one.
Dominic Genovese took an involuntary step backward, his jaw dropping open in sheer horror.
Frank Russo knocked his chair back as he scrambled upward, his eyes wide as saucers.
Alessandro didn't use a cane. He didn't use crutches. He stood six-foot-four inches tall, towering over every single man in the room, his broad shoulders casting a massive, terrifying shadow across the conference table.
His midnight-black suit fit his massive frame perfectly. He looked like an ancient, resurrected monarch standing above his treacherous generals.
He took a slow, heavy step forward.
The heel of his hand-crafted Italian leather shoe hit the hardwood floor with a loud, authoritative THUD that echoed like a gunshot throughout the library.
He took a second step. Strong. Balanced. Unyielding.
He walked around the edge of the mahogany table, stopping just eighteen inches from Dominic Genovese.
Dominic was shaking. The diamond ring on his finger trembled violently as he stared up into the dark, murderous eyes of the man he had called a cripple five seconds earlier.
“You came into my home,” Alessandro whispered, his voice vibrating through the floorboards like a tectonic shift. “You sat at my table. You offered me retirement.”
“Alessandro... I... I didn't know—” Dominic stammered, his face drained of all color, his hands flying up in a defensive gesture.
Alessandro reached out, his massive right hand grabbing Dominic by the collar of his thousand-dollar coat, lifting the older man three inches off the floor with effortless, terrifying strength.
“The Moretti family does not take orders from rats,” Alessandro hissed into his face.
He threw Dominic backward. The head of the Genovese family crashed onto the hardwood floor, sliding across the rug, coughing frantically as his bodyguards froze, terrified to pull their weapons in the presence of a man who looked entirely invincible.
Alessandro turned his gaze slowly toward his five captains.
Every single one of them instantly dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in terror and absolute submission.
“Forgive us, Boss!” Frank Russo pleaded, his voice trembling with tears. “We were lied to! We didn't know!”
Alessandro didn't look at them. He turned his head toward the back of the room, his dark eyes locking onto Marco Bellini.
May you like
Marco stood frozen by the door, his hand hovering near his shoulder holster, his face pale as a sheet.
“Marco,” Alessandro said, his voice cold as arctic ice. “Step forward.”
