Chapter 6 - The Poisoned Treaty
Two weeks of absolute silence followed the destruction of Red Hook. The Rossi syndicate had effectively collapsed, its soldiers absorbing into the Romano ranks or fleeing the state. Frank Rossi had vanished into the concrete jungle of New York, a broken old man with a bounty on his head.
Then, a formal courier arrived at the Oyster Bay gates, bearing an invitation with the seal of the Commission—the supreme council of the five families that governed the American Mafia.
Don Luciano, the ninety-year-old chairman of the council, had called for a mandatory peace summit to resolve the dispute between the Romano syndicate and Arban Hoxha’s Albanian faction. The meeting was set for Thursday night at L'Ancora, an exclusive, highly secured restaurant in Little Italy.
"It’s a trap," Meline said, standing behind Dominic in his study as he reviewed the security protocols for the summit. "Don Luciano is old, but he’s practical. He doesn't care about our family; he cares about the ports. The disruption in Brooklyn has cost the Commission millions in delayed shipments. He wants the conflict resolved, even if it means sacrificing one of us."
Dominic turned his chair around, pulling her down onto his lap. His hands traveled up her arms, his fingers tracing the delicate lines of her collarbone. "I know it’s a trap, Meline. That’s why you aren't staying here. You're coming with me."
Meline blinked, surprised. "Into the Commission? Women aren't allowed in the council chamber, Dominic. It’s against the old laws."
"The old laws died the day they put a bomb under my wife’s car," Dominic said, his blue eyes flashing with a cold, revolutionary fire.
"You are the mistress of the Romano family. The commission needs to see that you are not a piece of property I bought to settle a debt—you are the partner who shares my throne. Arban wants to claim you are his asset. I want him to say it to your face while my men are lining the rooftops of Little Italy."
The preparations for the summit were intense. Dominic mobilized his entire tactical unit, placing Marco in charge of a counter-sniper team that would occupy the buildings surrounding the restaurant. The children were placed under twenty-four-hour lockdown in a secure corporate safehouse in upstate New York, guarded by thirty elite soldiers.
On Thursday night, the air in Little Italy was heavy and humid. The streets surrounding L'Ancora had been completely cleared of civilian traffic, blocked off by black sedans and men in dark suits with communication pieces in their ears.
Dominic stepped out of his armored limousine, looking like an emperor in a midnight-blue tuxedo. He turned and extended his hand to Meline.
She stepped onto the pavement, a vision of dark elegance in a floor-length gown of black silk velvet, her throat adorned with a thick collar of diamonds Dominic had gifted her that morning. Her chin was held high, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, unyielding pride. She wasn't the trembling girl who had been shoved into the warehouse three weeks ago. She was a Romano.
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As they walked through the double doors of the restaurant, the heavy scent of roasted garlic, red wine, and raw tension hit them like a wall. Sit at the center table beneath a crystal chandelier were the five bosses of the Commission, their old, wrinkled faces frozen into masks of ancient authority.
And sitting at the far corner, looking disheveled, frantic, and wild-eyed, was Arban Hoxha. Beside him, handcuffed to his chair like a prisoner of war, was Frank Rossi.
