Chapter 7 - The Gathering of the Vultures
The Romano empire was not an organism that slept well when its head turned away. By the third week of November, the rumors had spread through the social clubs of Mulberry Street, the counting houses of Wall Street, and the private lounges of the legal district: the Don of Manhattan had abandoned his desk for a woman in a Bronx charity file.
A meeting was called at The Grand Liberty, a private dining club on the top floor of the Chrysler Building that had been owned by the Romano family since the prohibition era.
Dante sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He wore a fresh charcoal suit, his shirt immaculate, but he hadn't shaved in two days, and his ice-blue eyes were hooded with a exhaustion that looked like iron.
Around the table sat four men—the capos of the regional crews that kept the Romano concrete, shipping, and garbage interests running. At his right sat Silvio Moretti, a seventy-year-old patriarch with a silver cane and a face like an old ledger page, whose daughter Sofia had spent six years waiting for Dante to sign the marriage contract that Albert Romano had promised.
“Dante,” Silvio said, his voice a dry wheeze that carried forty years of political murders within its rhythm. “We hear things from the precincts. We hear you spent a million dollars buying up the debt of a public hospital in the Bronx. We hear you put Victor Vance out of business because of some girl from upstate.”
The other three capos looked down at their plates, their silence a clear sign of their agreement. In their world, a Don could have ten mistresses, fifty bastards, and a hundred apartments in Queens; but he did not stop a billion-dollar dock acquisition because a child climbed over a subway turnstile.
“Victor Vance was an extortionist who was operating on my territory without a license,” Dante said, his voice flat and clear as he cut his steak with a silver knife that didn't make a sound against the china. “His properties were a liability to our construction insurance pool. I cleaned up a loose end.”
“And the girl?” Silvio insisted, leaning forward, his silver cane rattling against the table leg. “Sofia has been sitting in her town house on Park Avenue since 2018, Dante. Your father promised that the Moretti shipping lines and the Romano terminals would be unified under one ring. Now we hear you have a bastard in your penthouse who has the Miller name on her birth certificate.”
Dante set his knife down. He didn't drop it; he placed it perfectly parallel to his fork, then leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his knee. The silence in the dining room grew so dense that the hum of the building's elevator shafts became audible through the oak doors.
“Her name is Emily Romano,” Dante said. He looked at Silvio, his gaze so cold it made the old man’s hand tighten against his cane. “She is my daughter. And if I hear the word bastard come out of your mouth again, Silvio, I will look through the books of your Brooklyn terminals with a federal prosecutor sitting on my left shoulder. Do you think I don't know how many containers of unmanifested copper went through Pier 42 last month?”
Silvio’s jaw tightened, his pale skin turning a dull, angry red. “Your father wouldn't have allowed this, Dante. He knew that an empire needs an alliance, not a romance from a library book. The Lucchese crews are pushing against our garbage routes in Queens because they think you’re soft. They think you’re sitting in an ICU holding hands instead of managing the perimeter.”
Dante stood up. He didn't shout. He didn't hit the table. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the gray skyline of Manhattan, where the first real winter storm was beginning to gather over the East River.
“My father,” Dante said, “spent thirty years building a wall to keep his enemies out. He lied to the woman I loved, he chased her into the gutter, and he made her live in a room where the train shook her mattress until her lungs rotted. He did all of that to protect what he called the 'family name.' And what did he leave me? A crew of vultures who are counting my containers while my daughter is learning to read from a taped book.”
He turned back to the table, his face a mask of absolute, sovereign authority that made even Silvio step back in his mind.
“Listen to me, all of you,” Dante said. “The Romano family is changing. The contracts are being rewritten. If you want to stay on the board, you pay your taxes, you manage your ports, and you lower your heads when my daughter enters the room. If you think I’ve gone soft because I’m a father, I suggest you ask Victor Vance how his properties look today. I didn't lose my teeth, boys. I just found something worth biting for.”
He walked out of the dining room, his coat swinging behind him, leaving the four capos staring at their plates like children who had realized the headmaster wasn't joking about the switch.
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Frank was waiting by the elevator, his phone in hand. “The hospital called, boss. The fever just broke. Sarah’s awake, and she’s asking for oatmeal.”
Dante’s face transformed, the cold stone of the Don evaporating into a smile that Frank hadn't seen on his face since the afternoon at the Cloisters seven years ago. “Let’s go, Frank. And stop at the grocery store on 3rd. Buy the big tin. The organic one.”
