Chapter 4 - The Gathering of Wolves
The penthouse suite of the DeLuca Tower in Manhattan was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the clinking of crystal glasses. The ten top capos of the syndicate sat around a massive mahogany table. At the head of the table sat Vincent Romano, wearing a bespoke Italian suit, swirling a measure of scotch.
"It is a dark day for all of us," Vincent said, his voice dripping with false sorrow. "Lorenzo DeLuca was a great leader. But his era has passed. The rivals from Boston are too aggressive; we need new leadership, a modern approach to our operations. I propose we consolidate command under my direct supervision."
The capos murmured among themselves. Some looked uneasy; others nodded in quiet agreement, bought off by Vincent's promises or terrified of his sudden rise to power.
"And if Lorenzo were to walk through that door right now?" asked Paulie 'The Hammer' Marino, a veteran capo who had served the DeLuca family for thirty years.
Vincent smiled, a thin, cruel expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Paulie, let’s not indulge in fairy tales. Lorenzo is gone. His body is at the bottom of the ocean. Anyone who suggests otherwise is either a fool or a traitor."
"Then call me a fool," a cold, calm voice echoed from the doorway.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
Silence fell over the room—a silence so absolute that the hum of the air conditioner sounded like a roar.
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Lorenzo DeLuca walked into the room. He wore a dark suit, his posture straight, his eyes fixed entirely on Vincent. There was no bandage visible, no sign of weakness, save for the slightest stiffness in his right stride. Behind him stood Marcus Bell and Anthony Graves, their hands resting casually inside their jackets.
Vincent dropped his glass. The crystal shattered against the marble floor, splashing amber liquid across the tiles.
