Chapter 6 - The Gathering of Wolves
By 10:45 a.m., the grand dining room of the Alfieri estate was filled with twelve of the most powerful men in Chicago's underground economy.
They sat around a thirty-foot polished mahogany table—captains of shipping, cold storage, construction, and international freight.
At the head of the table sat Julian Alfieri, flanked by Arthur Ashcroft and Camille.
Dr. Vance stood near the sideboard, holding a legal folder containing a forged death certificate draft, ready to be executed the moment Nico's cardiac monitor stopped.
Adeline stood in the corner of the room, wearing her blue scrubs, her head bowed submissively, holding a tray of water glasses.
"Gentlemen," Julian announced, knocking his knuckles against the mahogany wood to bring the room to order. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. As you know, my nephew Nico’s condition has deteriorated drastically following his tragic accident eight months ago."
Arthur Ashcroft nodded solemnly. "It's a tragedy for the family, Julian. But the syndicate cannot operate without a strong, capable leader at the helm. The dock workers are getting restless, and the eastern routes require immediate authorization."
"Precisely," Julian smiled smoothly. "Which is why, as senior family council, I am proposing an immediate vote to transfer all voting shares and executive authority of Alfieri Enterprises to myself and the Ashcroft group."
A heavy silence fell over the room as the old board members exchanged uncertain glances.
"Is Nico completely incapacitated?" asked Sal Moretti, an elderly syndicate boss who had been loyal to Nico's father. "I won't sign over his father's legacy without seeing the medical report myself."
"The medical report is right here, Sal," Dr. Vance chimed in, stepping forward with the folder. "Mr. Alfieri is currently comatose upstairs. He will not survive the afternoon."
"Is that so, Doctor?"
The deep, booming voice echoed from the back hallway like a crack of thunder.
The heavy double doors of the dining room swung open with violent force.
The entire room turned as one.
Nico Alfieri stood in the doorway.
He was not in his wheelchair.
He was standing on his own two feet, tall, imposing, dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit, his broad shoulders squared, his eyes burning with absolute, lethal authority.
He held a silver-headed cane in his right hand, but he wasn't leaning on it. He was standing completely upright, unassisted, radiating power.
Gasps of pure shock erupted around the table.
Camille knocked her chair over backward as she jumped up, her face draining of every drop of color. "No... no, that's impossible!"
Julian stared at his nephew as if he were looking at a ghost returned from the grave, his teacup shattering against the marble floor.
"Nico..." Sal Moretti gasped, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his weathered face. "You're... you're walking!"
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Nico took three slow, deliberate, powerful steps into the dining room, the heavy leather of his dress shoes striking the floor with cold, rhythmic precision.
"I’ve been walking for three weeks, Uncle Julian," Nico said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I just needed to see how far you and your friends were willing to go to steal what belongs to me."
