Chapter 6 - The Summit in Manhattan
By Tuesday evening, the rain had cleared, leaving the skyline of Manhattan glistening under a cold, starry night.
The annual Eastern Commission Summit was held on the penthouse floor of the historic St. Regis Hotel—a fortress of high-society luxury and deep criminal power.
Sitting around a massive round table made of dark mahogany were the heads of seven major families, guarded by dozens of lieutenants standing along the gilded walls. At the head of the table sat Don Dominic Marchetti—a massive, white-haired man in a tailored silk suit, his face worn by fifty years of absolute violence.
"Declan Kade is late," Marchetti declared, his voice gravelly as he tapped his gold ring against the table. "And after the disrespect he showed his own blood by handing Meredith to the federal government, he shouldn't bother showing up at all."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Donato," Don Carmine from Philadelphia said quietly. "Declan isn't a man who misses a meeting."
The heavy double doors of the penthouse ballroom swung open.
Declan Kade walked into the room alone. He wore an immaculate charcoal tuxedo, his hair neatly styled, looking like an emperor stepping into a room of commoners. He carried a sleek silver briefcase in his right hand.
The room fell completely silent as every eyes locked onto him.
"Declan," Don Marchetti scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair. "You have nerve coming here after what happened at your estate last week. Word on the street is your home was hit by unknown operators."
"They weren't unknown, Dominic," Declan said smoothly, walking up to the open seat at the opposite end of the table. He set the silver briefcase on the polished wood. "They were yours."
Marchetti’s eyes narrowed into twin slits. "Be careful what you accuse me of, boy."
Declan reached down, popped the latches of the briefcase, and opened it.
He didn't pull out papers. He reached inside, grabbed a heavy black object by its hair, and tossed it into the center of the mahogany table.
It rolled to a stop right in front of Don Marchetti’s crystal water glass.
It was the tactical radio and severed dog tags of Marchetti’s chief operative—the man Declan had shot outside the nursery.
The entire boardroom gasped. Several lieutenants reached inside their jackets, but Viktor and six Shaw shooters immediately stepped through the doorway, their suppressed weapons drawn and targeted on every boss in the room.
"Six days ago," Declan said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet, absolute terror that chilled the room to zero, "Dominic sent ten hitmen to my home. Not to fight my men. But to slaughter my six-year-old daughters and the woman who protects them."
Don Carmine stood up, staring at Marchetti in genuine disgust. "Dominic! Is this true? You targeted children?!"
"He violated the family code by involving the FBI!" Marchetti roared, slamming his fists onto the table. "He became weak! He is soft!"
"I am not soft, Dominic," Declan whispered, taking two slow steps toward the head of the table. "I am simply efficient."
Declan pulled a sleek tablet from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the table.
"While your men were dying on my lawn in the Hamptons," Declan revealed, "my technical team was quietly liquidating every offshore account held by the Marchetti family in Zurich and Liechtenstein. As of 3:00 PM today, Dominic, your family is completely bankrupt. Your lieutenants haven't been paid, your docks in New Jersey have been transferred to the Shaw trust, and your own captains signed a contract two hours ago transferring their loyalty to me."
Marchetti turned pale, his jaw dropping as he grabbed the tablet, looking at the banking confirmation codes scrolling across the screen. "You... you can't do this! The Commission won't allow it!"
Declan looked around the table at the six other regional bosses.
Don Carmine slowly shook his head, looking down at Marchetti with contempt. "You broke the sacred rule, Dominic. You targeted a boss's children. The Commission stands with Declan Kade."
One by one, the other five bosses nodded in agreement, turning their backs on the old tyrant.
Marchetti collapsed back into his chair, looking up at Declan with pure, helpless venom. "What are you going to do to me?"
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"You are going to retire, Dominic," Declan said flatly. "You will live in a small house in upstate New York under twenty-four-hour surveillance by my men. If you ever set foot in Manhattan again, or if you ever say my daughters' names, Viktor will finish what I started."
Declan turned on his heel, buttoned his tuxedo jacket, and walked out of the ballroom, leaving the old world of the syndicate shattered behind him.
