Chapter 7
By six o'clock that evening, a dramatic autumn twilight settled over the city, painting the sky in deep shades of violet, crimson, and shadow.
Inside the grand subterranean boardroom beneath the Marchetti mansion—a heavily secured vault lined with dark oak panels, leather armchairs, and a long mahogany conference table—the seven senior capos of the Marchetti syndicate were assembled.
Sitting at the far end of the table was Victor Vance.
At sixty-five years old, Vance was a distinguished, grey-haired elder of the family—a man who wore bespoke suits, carried a gold-headed cane, and projected an aura of wise, elder statesmanship. He had served Dominick's father for decades and had acted as Dominick's senior advisor since the young boss had assumed control of the empire.
The heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open, and Dominick Marchetti walked into the room.
He looked majestic, terrifying, and imposing in his black luxury suit, crisp white shirt, black tie, and silver wristwatch. His thick dark brown hair was neatly swept back, his sharp masculine jawline set like concrete, his piercing dark eyes burning with an apocalyptic, cold fury.
The seven capos stood up in quiet respect as Dominick walked to the head of the table.
Dominick did not sit down. He stood tall at the head of the mahogany table, resting his broad, tattooed hands flat against the polished wood, his broad shoulders dominating the vast room.
"Gentlemen," Dominick spoke, his deep baritone echoing with a lethal, absolute authority that chilled the air in the vault. "Tonight, we clear an old debt."
Victor Vance smiled politely, leaning on his gold cane. "An old debt, Dominick? Are we discussing the Brooklyn docks or the Atlantic shipping terminals?"
Dominick reached inside his black suit jacket. He did not pull out a weapon.
Instead, he pulled out a single sheet of heavy, yellowed cream parchment—the letter written thirty-one years ago by his late mother.
May you like
Dominick tossed the letter onto the center of the mahogany table, right in front of Victor Vance.
"We are discussing the night my mother died in the west wing, Victor," Dominick growled softly, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet register.
