Chapter 18
One week after the emotional reunion in Nevada, the supreme underworld council was convened in the gloomy, reinforced basement of a secret Denver skyscraper. This was the absolute tribunal where the life-or-death decisions governing the largest mafia families in the American West were finalized.
Richard Bellacorte sat at the head of the heavy oak table in a high-backed red leather chair, radiating the terrifying, imperial authority of an emperor. Standing directly behind him was Dominic. Dressed in an immaculate, pitch-black suit and wearing a polished silver half-mask, Dominic exuded the chilling aura of a grim reaper returning from the abyss. The entire room was dead silent; not a single mob boss dared to breathe loudly in the presence of the "ghost" of Dominic Bellacorte.
Bound and forced to kneel in the center of the cold concrete floor were Mark and Claudia. They looked utterly destroyed, filthy, and pathetic. Mark, his face covered in dark purple bruises, trembled violently as he bowed his head to the floor, begging for mercy, while Claudia wept hysterically, her expensive makeup smeared across her haggard, ruined face.
"Dad! Please spare my life!" Mark screamed, tears pouring from his eyes. "I was wrong! I was blinded by greed! Please, have mercy on your own blood! Give me a chance to survive!"
Richard looked down at his eldest son with cold, emotionless detachment, treating him like worthless garbage. He was entirely unmoved by the crocodile tears. He reached into his breast pocket and produced the forged inheritance transfer and the authentic guardianship letter secretly signed by his late wife, Eleanor.
"You severed your own bloodline the night you wired a bomb to your brother's car," Richard’s deep voice boomed across the stone chamber. "You shredded your mother's dying wish when you imprisoned Sarah and abused a three-year-old child. You pawned the family legacy to our enemies. To the Bellacorte family, you died a long time ago."
Richard turned and gave Dominic a single nod.
Dominic walked slowly down the stone steps, the rhythmic tapping of his cane echoing like a countdown to execution. He stopped directly in front of the brother who had so callously tried to murder him. Mark shook uncontrollably, squeezing his eyes shut, anticipating a bullet through the brain.
But Dominic didn't draw a gun. He pulled out a small, rusted silver dagger and coldly slashed a long, deep line across the back of Mark’s right hand, letting the blood drip steadily onto the concrete floor.
"You don't deserve a quick, easy death, Mark," Dominic said, his raspy voice devoid of all mercy. "I won't dirty my hands by executing trash. The ultimate punishment for a coward obsessed with power and money... is to live out the rest of his pathetic days as a stray dog."
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Dominic turned to the heavily armed guards lining the walls. "Carve a rusted cross into their cheeks. Strip them of all assets, money, and expensive clothes. Throw them both onto a cargo ship bound for the most destitute, diseased slum in South America. Let them live the rest of their lives in starvation, sickness, and absolute disdain. If any boss in this Council dares to provide them with a single penny or a crust of bread... the Bellacorte family will personally burn your territory to the ground."
Every crime boss in the room bowed their heads in absolute submission. The fate of Mark and Claudia had been sealed—a destiny far more cruel and terrifying than death itself.
