Chapter 5 - The Long Walk to Mulberry Street
Z
The rain had returned by the time our three-car convoy reached Little Italy. Mulberry Street was slick and empty, the neon signs of the closed bakeries casting long, red smears across the wet asphalt.
The emergency meeting was held in the back room of Il Cortile, a traditional Italian restaurant that had served as neutral ground for the New York families for over fifty years. Two heavy-set men in dark overcoats stood outside the front doors, their umbrellas dripping onto the sidewalk. They eyed my car suspiciously as Marco parked near the curb.
I looked at the rearview mirror. Vincent Colombo sat in the back of the lead car behind us, flanked by Santino. He looked hollowed out, like a man marching toward his own execution—which, in a way, he was, unless he played his part perfectly.
"You ready, Boss?" Marco asked, his hands tight on the steering wheel.
"No," I admitted honestly. "Make sure Elena and Sofia are on the boat to Connecticut by 9:00 AM. If anything goes wrong inside that room, do not come in after me. You take them to the farm in Stamford and stay there."
Marco turned to look at me, his eyes fierce. "I'm not leaving you in there with those old vultures, Dominic."
"You will do as you're told, Marco," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "This family doesn't need another dead Don. It needs someone alive to make sure that little girl grows up without ever hearing the name Moretti again."
I opened the door and stepped out into the chill morning air.
The back room of Il Cortile smelled of stale wine, espresso, and cigar smoke. The heavy wooden table in the center was surrounded by five men—the heads of the Five Families, or their designated representatives. At the head of the table sat Bernardo Lucchese, an eighty-year-old patriarch with skin like yellowed parchment and eyes as sharp as fresh glass.
When I walked in, followed by Vincent, the room went entirely silent. Cigar smoke hovered in the air like a low ceiling.
Old man Lucchese leaned forward, his gnarled hands resting on a silver-topped cane. "Dominic," he rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "We were told you had taken Vincent against the rules of the pact."
I pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table and sat down, unbuttoning my coat. "Who told you that, Bernardo?"
Lucchese’s eyes flicked to the corner of the room, where a junior lieutenant from the Genovese family was standing with a laptop. "An anonymous communication was sent to our channels at 3:00 AM."
"An anonymous communication from Adrian Moretti," I said clearly. "A man who is currently fleeing the country after attempting to embezzle family assets and orchestrate a war between the Moretti and Colombo families."
A murmur ran through the men at the table.
Lucchese looked past me to Vincent, who was standing stiffly near the door. "Vincent. Is this true? Were you kidnapped?"
Every eye in the room turned to the Colombo boss. Vincent’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. He looked at me, seeing the silent threat hanging in the balance—the Cayman Island ledgers that would mean a painful death at the hands of his own men.
"No," Vincent said, his voice strained but audible. "I was not kidnapped."
Lucchese’s eyebrows raised slightly. "Explain."
Vincent took a step toward the table, forcing his voice to stabilize. "Dominic and I met privately last night to resolve a internal dispute regarding my junior associates and his cousin Adrian. Adrian attempted to frame the Moretti family to stage a coup. Dominic brought the matter to my attention peacefully."
The lie was bold, absurd even to anyone who knew the deep-seated hatred between our factions. But in our world, a official lie delivered in front of the Commission was as good as gospel, provided no one challenged it.
Lucchese stared at Vincent for a long, agonizing minute. The silence stretched until the hum of the kitchen refrigerator seemed deafening.
"And the shipping terminals in Brooklyn?" Lucchese asked quietly.
"Transferred to the Moretti family as compensation for the disruption," Vincent lied, his heart clearly breaking with every word.
Lucchese slowly nodded his head. He looked back at me, his sharp eyes seeing right through the performance. He knew it was a shakedown. He knew I had put a gun—metaphorical or otherwise—to Vincent’s head. But because no blood had been spilled on the streets, and because the rules of public decorum had been maintained, he had no grounds to intervene.
"Then this matter is settled," Lucchese declared, striking his cane once against the hardwood floor. "The Moretti family retains its territory. The Colombo family retains its peace. But mark my words, Dominic..."
The old man leaned across the table, his gaze locking onto mine with chilling intensity.
May you like
"...you are playing a dangerous game. Your father ruled with iron. You rule with mirrors and shadows. Be careful that you don't get lost in your own illusion."
"Thank you, Don Lucchese," I said, rising from my chair. "I'll keep that in mind."
