Chapter 7 - The Judgment of the Five
"Sit down, Romano," Don Luciano croaked from the head of the table, his skeletal hand gesturing toward the two empty leather chairs opposite the Albanians. His ancient eyes shifted to Meline, a heavy, disapproving frown settling into his deep wrinkles. "We did not authorize the presence of the woman."
"My wife goes where I go, Luciano," Dominic said, his voice smooth as silk as he pulled out Meline’s chair, waiting for her to settle before taking his own seat. He didn't look at Arban or Frank. "If the Commission has an issue with my marital arrangements, we can discuss it after we settle the matter of the Brooklyn ports."
Arban slammed his heavy fist onto the white tablecloth, rattling the crystal wine glasses. "There is nothing to discuss! This bastard burned my warehouses! He stole my prize! Frank Rossi traded the girl to me to clear a legitimate debt. The Romano family has violated the territorial treaties of the council!"
Don Luciano turned his ancient, milky gaze toward Frank Rossi. "Rossi. Is this true? Did you trade your daughter to the Albanians?"
Frank Rossi looked up, his face covered in bruises, his eyes hollow and terrified. He looked at Meline, his only daughter, but there was no paternal recognition in his eyes—only the desperate, sniveling survival instinct of a coward.
"She... she was worthless to the family, Don Luciano," Frank stammered, his voice shaking. "She’s barren. She couldn't provide an alliance through blood. I used her to clear a three-million-dollar deficit. Dominic Romano interfered in a private family transaction."
Meline felt a sudden, profound wave of disgust wash over her. This was the man who had raised her. This was the man who had called her his princess for twenty-three years, until a medical report showed her womb was empty.
She leaned forward, resting her diamond-clad elbows on the table, her dark eyes locking onto her father’s face.
"You didn't use me to clear a debt, Frank," Meline said, her voice clear, resonant, and entirely devoid of fear. The entire room went dead silent; a woman speaking in the Commission chamber was an unprecedented defiance of a century of tradition.
"You used me because you are a weak, pathetic coward who couldn't stop gambling along the docks. You sold your own blood to a pack of dogs because you thought I was too small to fight back. But look at me now, Father. I am sitting at the table of the five families, and you are wearing handcuffs. Who is the worthless one now?"
Arban let out a furious roar, reaching into his jacket for a weapon—but before his hand could even clear his lapel, Dominic’s pistol was already pressed against the Albanian’s forehead, the click of the safety being disengaged echoing like a crack of thunder in the room.
Instantly, ten bodyguards from both sides drew their weapons, the council chamber turning into a lethal standoff where a single twitch would result in a bloodbath.
Don Luciano didn't flinch. He raised one thin, trembling finger. "Down," he commanded. "All of you. Now."
Slowly, with absolute reluctance, the bodyguards lowered their weapons. Dominic kept his pistol locked onto Arban’s forehead for three long seconds before lowering it back to the table, his blue eyes never leaving the Albanian’s face.
Luciano looked at Meline, a faint, terrifying glint of respect showing in his old eyes. He turned to Arban.
"The Commission does not recognize the trade of a human being to an external syndicate as a valid resolution for a debt," Luciano announced, his voice carrying the finality of a supreme court verdict. "The girl belongs to the Romano family by right of marriage. The debt Frank Rossi owes you, Arban, is dead. And your presence in this city is no longer profitable."
Arban’s face turned an ugly, dark purple. He realized he had lost. The Commission had sided with the power of the Romano empire over the pride of a thug.
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"This isn't over, Romano," Arban hissed, standing up from his chair, his bodyguards moving to surround him as he backed toward the exit. "You think you’ve won because these old men protect you. But your children... your beautiful, precious children... they still have to come down from that mountain."
Dominic didn't respond with words. He simply picked up his wine glass and took a slow, deliberate sip. The war wasn't over—it had simply shifted from the boardroom to the streets.
