Chapter 3 - The Blood-Truce Table
The rain was relentless over the industrial docks of the East River.
The meeting of the Five Families was held in a converted, subterranean vault beneath an old iron foundry—a neutral territory designed in the 1920s to resolve blood feuds without the threat of law enforcement or drive-by ambushes. The air was thick with the reek of damp limestone, expensive cigars, and the unspoken tension of fifteen heavily armed men standing within arm's reach of one another.
Dominic Reyes walked into the vault at precisely 9:00 PM.
He wore a charcoal suit, immaculate and sharply tailored, his hands buried casually in his trousers pockets. On his right walked Mateo, whose silent presence was a lethal guarantee; on his left sat Valerio, carrying the leather briefcase that contained sixty years of syndicate precedent.
At the center of the vault sat Don Carmine Moretti.
Carmine was seventy, with skin like cured leather and small, predatory eyes buried beneath thick, white brows. To his left sat representatives from the Genovese, Lucchese, and Falcone families—men who had grown rich on the stability Dominic had enforced over the past half-decade.
"Dominic," Carmine growled, gesturing to an empty iron chair across the long oak table. "You walk in here like a man visiting his garden. You breached the southern provincial border without a council vote. You took three boys from a farm in San Lorenzo."
Dominic did not sit. He stood behind the chair, resting his hands lightly on its backrest.
"I took my sons," Dominic said flatly. "I do not require a council vote to collect my own blood."
"They are Vasquez blood!" Carmine slammed a heavy gold-ringed hand onto the wood, the sound echoing like a gunshot against the wet stone walls. "Elena Vasquez was the daughter of Don Hector! When you wiped out the Vasquez clan six years ago, their assets and outstanding debts were absorbed by the Southern Commission under my jurisdiction! Those boys carry the lineage of a fallen house, Dominic. Under the Old Laws, they belong to the court of guardianship until they reach majority—to ensure they do not seek vendetta against the man who killed their grandfather!"
A low murmur rippled through the other dons. Old law was sacred to men who had built their lives on archaic honor codes to justify their violence.
Dominic leaned forward, his face casting long shadows under the bare bulb overhead. "Hector Vasquez was a traitor who sold heroin to children and ordered an ambush on my estate. I put a bullet in his forehead myself. Elena had no part in his business. My sons carry my name. Reyes."
"They carry a double strain," Carmine countered, a dark smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And you, Dominic, are a man who lives alone in a glass tower. You have no wife. You have no domestic household. You are a warlord, not a father. How can the Commission trust that you will not raise three young Vasquez wolves inside your own home to turn on you—or worse, to claim the southern territories when they mature?"
Valerio stepped forward, opening the leather binder. "Under Article 14 of the 1982 Accord, a blood father retains absolute primacy over collateral family claims, provided—"
"I don't care about your articles, Valerio!" Carmine snapped. He looked directly at Dominic. "Here is my demand. The boys are placed in a neutral foster estate in Sicily under Commission guard until a formal tribunal can evaluate their lineage. Or... you yield thirty percent of your shipping rights at the north port to compensate the southern families for the breach of territory."
The true motive was out. Carmine did not care about three small boys in San Lorenzo. He wanted the north port—the crown jewel of Dominic’s logistics empire.
Dominic let out a low, cold breath that condensed in the damp air of the vault.
He stepped around the chair. He walked slowly toward Carmine’s side of the table. Carmine’s two bodyguards instantly shifted their weight, their hands reaching under their coats, but Mateo’s hand was already on his sidearm, his eyes locked on their throats.
Dominic stopped two inches from Carmine’s chair. He bent down, bringing his face level with the old man's.
"Carmine," Dominic whispered, his tone so terrifyingly calm that the don’s smile faltered. "Six years ago, I thought I had nothing left to lose. That was why I was able to butcher forty men in a single night and sleep like a child afterward. For six years, I was empty. I was dead."
Dominic placed his hand flat on the table near Carmine’s fingers.
"Now," Dominic continued, "I have three boys sleeping in my home. If you so much as utter another threat regarding their custody, or if one of your scouts looks at my penthouse through a scope, I will not call a tribunal. I will not negotiate ports. I will burn your estate with you inside it, and I will execute every man who carries your name down to your third cousins. Do we understand each other?"
Silence held the room in a stranglehold. The other dons looked away, refusing to intervene. They knew Dominic was not making a dramatic statement; he was stating an operational reality.
Carmine swallowed hard, his skin turning a sickly gray under the harsh light. "You are breaking the peace, Reyes."
"The peace is whatever I say it is," Dominic said softly. He stood upright, buttoned his suit jacket, and turned his back on the council. "We are leaving."
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As they reached the heavy iron doors, Valerio leaned toward Dominic. "Carmine will not let this drop, boss. He has been humiliated in front of the Commission. He will strike at your weakness."
"I know," Dominic said, stepping out into the cold rain. "Which means I need to make sure my home is unassailable."
