Chapter 6 - The Brooklyn Sit-Down
The basement of the abandoned sugar refinery in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, was cold and smelled of damp concrete and old iron. A single long oak table sat in the center of the vast space, illuminated by industrial pendant lights hanging from the high ceiling. Around the table sat the heads of the five families of New York—old men with cold eyes and long memories.
At the head of the table sat Don Carmine, the aging chairman of the Commission. To his left sat Don Valenti, a greasy, volatile man whose fingers twitched near his gold rings.
The heavy steel doors opened, and Giovanni Moretti walked in alone. He wore a dark grey charcoal suit, a black tie, and no coat despite the autumn chill. He carried no visible weapons, but the absolute confidence in his stride made every guard in the room instinctively tighten their grip on their holsters. He took his seat at the opposite end of the table from Valenti, his expression completely unreadable.
"Giovanni," Don Carmine said, his voice gravelly with age. "Thank you for joining us. We are here to resolve the dispute between the Moretti family and the Valenti family. The bloodshed in Manhattan has become loud. The feds are paying attention. It needs to stop."
Don Valenti slammed his fist on the table. "It stops when the Morettis yield the shipping docks in Queens! And it stops when Moretti pays blood money for the three men he slaughtered on the Boston highway three weeks ago!" Valenti leaned forward, a sick, predatory grin spreading across his face. "We know what you were doing in Boston, Moretti. We know about the little bastard you fetched from the hospital. A secret son. How touching. It would be a shame if something happened to a boy with such an... unstable medical history."
The room went dead silent. The other Dons shifted uncomfortably. Even in the mafia, targeting infants was looked down upon by the old guard—it brought too much heat, too much dishonor. But Valenti was desperate.
Giovanni did not lose his temper. He didn't slam his hand or shout. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, his dark eyes locking onto Valenti with a chilling, absolute stillness.
"You shouldn't have said that, Alberto," Giovanni said softly.
"Are you threatening me in front of the Commission?!" Valenti sneered.
"No," Giovanni replied, pulling a small silver remote control from his pocket and placing it on the table. "I’m letting you know that your execution has already been approved."
Giovanni pressed the button.
Before Valenti could react, the heavy steel doors opened again. Marco walked in, accompanied by two men carrying a heavy leather briefcase. They placed the briefcase in front of Don Carmine and opened it.
Inside were neat, thick stacks of financial ledgers, encrypted flash drives, and photographic evidence.
"What is this?" Don Carmine asked, adjusting his glasses.
"That," Giovanni said, his voice echoing clearly through the refinery, "is the complete financial history of the Valenti family for the past five years. It contains the exact account numbers, offshore shell companies, and wire transfers showing that Alberto Valenti has been skimming ten percent off the Commission’s joint heroin pipeline through the Port of Newark. He’s been stealing from all of you. From the Lucchesis, the Bonannos, the Colombos. From you, Don Carmine."
Don Valenti’s face drained of all color. He scrambled to his feet, his chair screeching against the concrete. "It’s a lie! A frame-up! Moretti fabricated it!"
"The flash drives contain the digital signatures from your own accountant, Alberto," Giovanni said smoothly. "The same accountant who spent the last forty-eight hours in a Moretti safe house explaining exactly how you bought that villa in Tuscany with stolen Commission money."
Don Carmine looked up from the ledgers, his old eyes turning to ice as he looked at Valenti. The rules of the underworld were complex, but one was absolute: you never, ever steal from the family.
"Alberto," Don Carmine said softly. "Sit down."
"Carmine, listen to me—"
"I said sit down," the old man repeated. He looked across the table at Giovanni. "Giovanni. You brought this evidence to us instead of using it for blackmail. Why?"
"Because I want this war finished," Giovanni said, standing up and leaning over the table, his presence dominating the room. "The Valenti family is compromised. Their leadership is corrupt and treacherous. I propose the Commission dissolve the Valenti family effective immediately. Their territories will be divided equally among the remaining four families. And as for Alberto..." Giovanni looked directly at the trembling man. "...he made a threat against my son. And for that, there is only one penalty."
Don Carmine looked at the other Dons around the table. One by one, they gave a slow, solemn nod. The verdict was unanimous.
Valenti reached for his jacket, but before his hand could clear his lapel, his own chief bodyguard—a man who had been bought by Giovanni two weeks prior—stepped up behind him. A suppressed pistol coughed twice against the back of Valenti’s head.
The Don fell face-forward onto the oak table, his blood spreading across the polished wood, staining the very ledgers that had condemned him.
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Giovanni didn't look at the body. He adjusted his cuffs, looked at Don Carmine, and nodded. "Thank you, Gentlemen. The Moretti family considers this matter closed. Goodnight."
He turned and walked out of the room, his long strides taking him away from the blood and the darkness, out into the crisp autumn night where a clean, bright moon was rising over the city.
