Chapter 15 - The Commission's Ultimatum
Three days after the trial concluded, an urgent summons arrived at my estate.
The National Commission—the council of senior mob bosses representing the major families across North America—had called an emergency summit at a private estate in upstate New York.
"It’s a trap, Boss," Tony argued passionately as we prepared the armored vehicles in our Long Island City garage. "Don Salvatore pulled strings with the senior bosses in Chicago and Philadelphia. They’re going to use this summit to strip you of your title and hand Queens over to Chicago!"
"If I don't attend, Tony, the Commission will officially declare us renegades," I explained calmly, buttoning my dark vest. "They’ll authorize every family in the country to declare open war on Queens. We go, we stand our ground, and we show them we aren't afraid."
"I’m bringing twenty heavily armed men," Tony insisted.
"You’re bringing ten," I corrected him. "And Bruno comes inside with me."
Two hours later, our three-car motorcade pulled through the iron gates of a secluded lakefront estate in Westchester County. The grounds were heavily guarded by neutral security personnel wearing dark suits and carrying submachine guns.
Inside the grand oak-paneled council room, a long rectangular table was set up. Sitting around the table were seven elderly mob bosses—the rulers of the most powerful syndicates in the United States.
At the far end of the table sat Don Salvatore of Chicago. He was a broad, heavy-set man in his early seventies, with slicked-back white hair, a expensive cigar clutched in his teeth, and eyes as cold as a shark’s.
When I walked into the room accompanied by Bruno, the entire council fell completely silent.
"Gabriel Moretti," Don Salvatore rasped, blowing a thick cloud of blue cigar smoke into the air. "You've made quite a name for yourself lately. You put your own uncle in a federal cage, exposed a police captain, and shipped five of my top enforcers back to Illinois in a cattle car."
"I protected my home, Salvatore," I said, stepping up to the foot of the table and pulling out a chair. Bruno sat right beside my knee, his dark eyes locked on Salvatore. "Your men crossed into Queens without permission. They helped traffic children. In my borough, that carries a death sentence."
"We don't care about your morals, kid!" spat Don Lucchesi, an old boss from Philadelphia sitting at Salvatore's right hand. "You disrupted multi-million-dollar shipping corridors! You brought federal heat down on all our heads with that trial! The news media is breathing down our necks!"
"The federal heat was brought by Corrado and Harris because they were sloppy and greedy," I fired back, my voice echoing off the timbered walls. "My house is clean. Can all of you say the same about yours?"
Don Salvatore stood up, leaning his heavy hands on the table.
"Here is the Commission's ultimatum, Gabriel," Salvatore announced in a booming, dictatorial voice. "You will surrender control of the Long Island City docks to a joint Commission committee. You will pay a five-million-dollar fine to Chicago for the disruption of our shipping routes. And you will allow our transport trucks free passage through Queens without inspection."
The room grew deathly quiet as the six other bosses nodded in agreement, waiting for my submission.
I looked around the table at the elderly men who had spent fifty years trading human dignity for profit.
Then I smiled—a cold, terrifying smile that made two of the bosses visibly uncomfortable.
"No," I said softly.
Salvatore’s face turned bright red with rage. "What did you say?!"
"I said no," I repeated, leaning forward across the table. "Queens is no longer part of your Commission. We do not answer to Chicago. We do not answer to Philadelphia. And if a single truck carrying narcotics or human cargo attempts to cross my borders, I won't just seize the cargo... I will wipe out every man who touched it."
Salvatore reached for his inner jacket pocket, but before his hand could move two inches—
*SNARL!*
Bruno launched himself onto the edge of the heavy oak table, his massive front paws slamming down on the polished wood, his jaws snapping inches from Salvatore’s face.
The Chicago boss gasped, stumbling backward and knocking his leather chair over onto the floor.
"Keep your hands where I can see them, Salvatore," I warned smoothly as Bruno stood on top of the Commission table like a roaring tiger. "My dog doesn't respect your title."
"This is war, Gabriel!" Salvatore screamed from the floor, his face flushed with panic and embarrassment. "You’ve declared war on the entire Commission!"
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"No, Salvatore," I said, turning my back on the council and heading for the exit doors. "You declared war on me when you came after Elena Vasquez. Now let's see if your empire can survive the fallout."
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