Chapter 7 - The Last CouncilThree days later, the oak-paneled boardroom at Bellanova was completely silent.
There were no crystal chandeliers glowing today. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn shut, letting only thin slivers of afternoon light cut across the long walnut table.
At the head of the table sat me.
To my left and right stood twelve new captains—men and women chosen not for their family bloodlines or blind obedience, but for proven, uncompromised loyalty during the purge.
Tied to chairs at the far end of the room were Marco Vale, Vincenzo Russo, and Alan Vance. Their faces were bruised, their suits ruined, their arrogance thoroughly shattered.
I didn't look at them as I opened a leather-bound ledger on the table.
“Marco,” I said, my voice echoing off the wood paneling. “You managed my books for twelve years. You knew every account, every safehouse, every asset.”
Marco spat a drop of blood onto the floor, glaring up at me with bitter hatred. “Go to hell, Dante.”
“I’m already there, Marco. You built the neighborhood,” I replied smoothly. Then I looked up at Vincenzo. “And you, old friend. You thought the syndicate was ready for a corporate takeover. You thought violence was bad for stock prices.”
Vincenzo laughed darkly. “You can't kill us all, Dante. The commission will—”
“The commission doesn't exist anymore,” I interrupted, closing the ledger with a sharp snap that made the room jump. “As of noon today, Bellanova is no longer a syndicate. We are a sovereign private equity firm. All illegal trafficking assets have been liquidated, redirected, or handed over to federal authorities as part of a cooperative restructuring agreement.”
Alan Vance’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with horror. “You liquidated the entire West Side distribution network? That’s billions of dollars in revenue!”
“That’s blood money, Alan. And I’m done paying taxes on it,” I stood up slowly from my chair, buttoning my suit jacket. I walked down the length of the table, stopping directly in front of the three traitors.
“What happens to us?” Marco whispered, his voice finally losing its bravado.
“You’re not going to a federal prison,” I said quietly. “Federal prisons are too comfortable for men who target pregnant women and manipulate families.”
I turned to the head of my new security detail standing by the door.
“Take them to the freighter docked at Pier 44. One-way ticket to South America. No money, no aliases, no protection. Let them see how well corporate greed feeds them when they have to work for their bread on the docks.”
“No—Dante, please!” Vincenzo snarled, straining against his zip-ties as two guards hauled him out of his chair. “You can’t do this! We made you!”
“You made yourselves obsolete,” I said as they were dragged out of the room, their protests fading down the corridor until heavy oak doors sealed shut.
The room fell silent once more.
I turned back to the remaining captains. “Meeting’s over.”
As they stood and filed out of the room, I remained at the head of the table for a long moment, looking down at the empty walnut surface where my whiskey glass had sat the night everything changed.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A single text message from a secure number at Northwestern Memorial.
We are discharged. Coming home.
May you like
A slow, genuine smile spread across my face—the first real smile I had worn in years.
I buttoned my jacket, turned my back on the empty boardroom, and walked out into the light.
