Chapter 4 - The War Council
I woke up at seven in the morning to the smell of fresh coffee and toasted bread.
For a second, I forgot where I was. I reached instinctively for the metal pipe I used to keep beside my cheap mattress in the Cicero rooming house. My hand swept through soft, high-thread-count cotton sheets instead.
I sat up. The sunlight was pouring through the grand arched windows, reflecting off the harbor waters in the distance.
A quiet knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," I called out, pulling a heavy knit cardigan over my white maternity dress.
Edna, a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties with grey hair pulled into a neat bun, entered carrying a silver breakfast tray. She set it on the table near the fireplace with practiced ease.
"Mr. Kalas requested that you eat a full breakfast before the meeting," Edna said politely. "The doctor's orders were very specific regarding your caloric intake."
"Meeting?" I asked, setting my feet on the plush rug. "What meeting?"
"The family council, ma'am," Edna replied smoothly. "Mr. Kalas has summoned the capos of the North End and South Boston. They have been in the study since five this morning."
Ten minutes later, despite Edna’s subtle suggestions that I rest, I walked down the grand mahogany staircase. I wasn't going to sit in a bedroom like a helpless prize while men decided my fate.
The ground floor was bustling with activity. Men in tailored dark suits with subtle bulges under their jackets moved briskly through the corridors carrying encrypted tablets and leather folders.
I followed the sound of low, intense voices toward the formal library at the end of the east wing. The double doors were slightly ajar.
I stood in the shadow of the doorway, looking inside.
A massive long oak table occupied the center of the room. Around it sat seven men, all older, dressed in expensive suits, their faces grim. At the head of the table stood Damon Kalas. He had changed into a dark navy suit, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, showing a small white bandage where the glass had grazed his neck.
Behind him, mounted on the wall, was a large digital map of Boston's port district, showing shipping routes highlighted in red and green.
"Victor Marquetti crossed the line last night," Damon was saying, his voice like iron sliding over stone. "He put a shooter outside St. Cordova. He fired into my street."
"Damon, listen to reason," an older capo with silver hair said, leaning forward. "Victor has the police commissioner in his pocket. The Marquettis control three major hotels and the entire cold storage network. If we launch an open war in the North End, the federal authorities will step in. It will ruin business for all of us."
"Business?" Damon stepped closer to the table, leaning his palms flat against the dark wood. His presence seemed to consume the room. "Frank, six months ago Eli Voss was murdered on Pier 4. We were told it was a botched robbery. Last night, Victor’s daughter walked into my restaurant and put her hands on Eli’s pregnant widow."
The room went dead quiet.
The silver-haired capo swallowed hard. "We didn't know the girl was still alive, Damon. We thought..."
"You thought what was convenient," Damon spat coldly. "You thought it was easy to forget Eli because he wasn't born with the Kalas name. But Eli built our logistics network. He bled for this family. And his wife was forced to live like a dog in cheap rooming houses because Victor Marquetti wanted his territory!"
Damon slammed his fist onto the table. The water glasses rattled.
"There will be no peace with the Marquettis," Damon declared, his dark eyes sweeping over the seven men. "By the time the sun sets today, we seize the Pier 4 cold storage facility. We cut off their distribution. We bleed their hotel chain until Victor comes to me on his knees."
"And the girl?" another capo asked. "What about Adriana?"
"She stays here," Damon said. "Under my personal protection. Anyone who looks at her wrong dies. Am I clear?"
The men nodded slowly, submitting to his authority without further debate.
I stepped out from the shadow of the doorway, my leather shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor.
May you like
"No, Damon," I said clearly, stepping into the library. "That's not how we do this."
Every man in the room turned to look at me.
