Chapter 16 - The Summit of Six Hundred
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The Grand Continental’s underground ballroom was a cavernous space designed for secrecy. There were no windows, only heavy velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers casting a dim, golden light over the massive round table in the center.
Six hundred men filled the room—capos, underbosses, and soldiers from the Five Families. The air was thick with tension, expensive cologne, and impending violence.
When the heavy brass doors opened, the entire room fell dead silent.
Devan Marshall entered. He drove his wheelchair with smooth, unhurried precision, his chin held high. Beside him walked Naya, wearing a sleek, tailored white pantsuit that contrasted sharply with the sea of dark tuxedos. She looked like an angel walking into hell.
She walked with a steady, commanding rhythm, her hand resting lightly on the back of Devan’s chair. Hidden beneath the crisp white fabric of her jacket was a tactical earpiece and a silenced compact pistol.
Don Rossi was already seated at the head of the table, flanked by the other four bosses. He smiled like a wolf smelling blood.
“You actually showed up, Devan,” Rossi sneered. “And you brought the hired help.”
Devan parked his chair at the opposite end of the table. Naya remained standing directly behind him, her eyes sweeping the room, calculating the exits and noting the positions of Rossi’s armed guards.
“I brought my fiancé, Emilio,” Devan corrected, his voice echoing in the silent room. “And I am here to listen to whatever fairy tale you’ve spun for the Commission to try and steal my docks.”
One of the older bosses, a man named Falcone, leaned forward.
“This isn't a fairy tale, Marshall. A boss must project strength. You are bound to a wheelchair, and you replaced a pure-blood mafia princess with a common waitress. You bring shame to the syndicate. The vote has been cast.”
Falcone slid a piece of paper across the table.
May you like
“You are stripped of your rank, your territory, and your life. Effective immediately.”
Every Rossi soldier in the room simultaneously unbuttoned their jackets, resting their hands on their holstered weapons. The trap was sprung.
