Chapter 15 - Alliances in the Dark
The underground council chamber beneath Damian’s downtown headquarters felt like a crypt carved out of obsidian and reinforced steel. There were no windows, no electronic signals that could escape the jammer perimeter, and no mercy.
Seven men and two women sat around the massive round mahogany table. They were the regional commanders of Damian’s network—the syndicates controlling the shipping docks, the financial conduits, the union locals, and the armed squads that enforced Vance sovereignty across the Midwest.
I sat to Damian’s right.
When we had entered, several of the older capos had exchanged skeptical, disparaging glances. A civilian woman, an art teacher, sitting at a war table? In their traditional world, wives stayed in the penthouse and spent money.
"You brought your bride to a council of blood, Vance?" muttered Sal Bonventre, a scarred veteran who oversaw the rail terminals. "With all due respect, boss, the Rossi family has New York backing them. Stefano’s reached into our backyards. We need steel, not wedding flowers."
Before Damian could tear the man’s throat out, I leaned forward, resting my clasped hands on the polished wood.
"Mr. Bonventre," I said calmly, my voice cutting through the heavy air with razor-sharp clarity.
The room fell dead silent.
"You control the western rail yards," I continued, looking directly into his cold, gray eyes. "Three days ago, a freight manifest out of Long Island arrived at Yard 4 under the guise of industrial textiles. It cleared customs without inspection because the Rossi family paid off your deputy supervisor, Carlucci."
Bonventre’s jaw slacked slightly. "What are you talking about?"
"I know this," I said, sliding a manila folder across the table, "because I spent yesterday afternoon cross-referencing shipping codes for our art center’s steel girders with the port authority logs. Your yards are leaking contraband, Sal. Not because you’re disloyal, but because you assumed the enemy would come with guns instead of forged freight invoices. Stefano Rossi isn't just threatening my family—he is moving heavy weapons onto your territory to replace you."
Bonventre opened the folder, his face turning an ash-gray as he saw the bank wire transfers and customs stamps. He swallowed hard, looking up from the papers to me, and then to Damian.
Damian sat back in his high-backed chair, a look of profound, chilling pride radiating from his gaze. He didn't say a single word, letting the silence weigh down on the council like lead.
"Now," I said, leaning back and matching the steely gazes of every hardened killer in the room. "Are we going to sit here debating whether I belong at this table, or are we going to cut off Stefano Rossi’s supply lines before he even enters Chicago?"
Sal Bonventre slowly closed the folder. He stood up, placed his hand over his heart, and bowed his head toward me.
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"Understood, Mrs. Vance," he said with utter conviction. "The yards will be purged tonight."
Around the table, the other capos bowed their heads in silent agreement. The art teacher was no longer just the boss's fiancée. She was the matriarch of the family.
