Chapter 5 - The Reckoning of the Duca Legacy
Three days after Christmas, Anthony called an emergency meeting of the Duca family commission.
They met in the basement of the old Italian social club in the North End—the same room where his father had signed treaties and ordered executions for forty years. Around the long table sat his captains, his legal counsel, and the heads of the allied families.
"Anthony," his underboss, Frank, said, sliding a ledger across the table. "The Rossi family is finished. After the stunt their scouts pulled in the suburbs last week, we raided their warehouses in East Boston. We took their entire logistics network. You have total control of the northern ports now."
The captains murmured in approval, looking at Anthony with the respect reserved for a conquering king.
Anthony didn't look at the ledger. He stood up, his hands resting on the back of his leather chair.
"I’m out," he said.
The room went dead silent. The murmuring stopped instantly. Frank stared at him as if Anthony had spoken in a foreign language.
"What did you say, Boss?" Frank asked.
"I’m stepping down," Anthony repeated, his voice calm, clear, and unyielding. "Effective immediately, the Duca syndicate is dissolved. The legitimate assets—the construction firms, the real estate holding companies, the waste management contracts—will be divided equally among the captains. The illegitimate assets are being sold to the Chicago family. I’ve already signed the transfer agreements."
"Anthony, you can't do this!" one of the older captains, Silvio, shouted, slamming his fist on the table. "Your father built this family! You are a Duca! You can't just walk away because you want a quiet life!"
Anthony leaned over the table, his eyes locking onto Silvio’s with a cold, terrifying intensity that made the older man slide back in his chair.
"My father died in a federal hospital with handcuffs on his bedpost, Silvio," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried to every corner of the room. "My cousin Marco spent his life trying to kill me, and I spent mine trying to kill him. I have a son. He is seven years old. He knows how to fix stars, and he knows how to build cranes. He does not know how to clean blood off a marble floor. And he never will."
He pulled his signet ring—the heavy gold ring with the Duca crest—off his finger and dropped it onto the mahogany table. It hit the wood with a dull, final thud.
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"If any man in this room, or any man in this city, ever brings a single drop of trouble to my family's door," Anthony said, looking at each of them in turn, "I will not use the lawyers. I will not use the commission. I will come for you myself. And you know exactly what I am capable of when I am angry."
He turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind the crown he had spent his entire life preparing to wear.
