Chapter 4 - The Midnight Council
The war room in the basement of the Moretti estate looked nothing like a corporate boardroom. It was a subterranean vault lined with concrete, security monitors glowing with feeds from a dozen hidden cameras, and a massive oak table scattered with tactical maps, intercepted phone logs, and weapon schematics.
Dante sat at the head of the table, flanked by Marcus and three other senior capos. The air was thick with the acrid smell of cigar smoke and black coffee.
"The breach at Sector Four was a diversion," Marcus reported, tapping a digital map on the central screen. "They sent three low-level grunts to trip the sensors, draw our attention north, while a separate team tried to scale the wall near the old greenhouse on the west side."
"Tried?" Dante raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his leather chair.
"Sniper detail took care of the climbers before they touched the grass," Marcus said with a grim smile. "Two captured alive. Being interrogated in the lower holding cells right now."
One of the capos, a bulky, scarred veteran named Bruno, slammed his fist onto the table. "It’s Salvatore sending a message. He thinks Dante taking a bride has made us soft. We need to hit his primary import warehouse on the South Side before sunrise. Burn it to the ground."
"No," Dante said instantly, his voice cutting through the noise like a razor. "Burning warehouses is messy. It alerts federal authorities, and right now, the FBI is sniffing around our financial portfolios. We need a precision strike."
"What kind of strike, boss?" Marcus asked.
"Salvatore relies on his cousin, Marco, to handle his laundering accounts through the European shell companies," Dante said, his dark eyes gleaming with ruthless calculation. "Cut off the money, and the army starves itself. Marcus, pull up the Swiss routing numbers we intercepted last month."
While the men bickered over account numbers, encryption keys, and tactical deployment, Jamaima stood quietly in the shadows near the reinforced steel doorway. She had followed them down—not because she was invited, but because staying alone in the gilded cage of the west wing felt like waiting for an executioner's axe to fall.
She watched Dante from across the room. He commanded the room with absolute authority. Every man at that table deferred to him, feared him, and would die for him without a second thought. This was the man she had been forced to share a bed with, a man whose skin she had washed with soap just an hour ago. The dichotomy was staggering.
Midway through a heated debate about offshore accounts, Dante’s head snapped toward the doorway. His sharp gaze locked directly onto Jamaima standing in the shadows.
The room fell instantly silent. The other capos turned, their expressions hardening as they regarded the unexpected female presence in their war room.
"What is she doing down here?" Bruno muttered under his breath, glaring at her. "This isn't a nursery."
Dante stood up slowly from his chair. He didn't answer Bruno immediately. He walked across the concrete floor, his boots echoing sharply in the confined space, until he stood right in front of Jamaima.
"I told you to stay in the west wing," Dante said quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"I couldn't sleep," she replied, her chin held high despite the intimidating aura of the men staring at her. "And I refuse to cower in a room while my life is being discussed like a tactical asset."
A flicker of something resembling respect crossed Dante's dark eyes. He turned back to the table, raising his voice so all the men could hear.
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"Meeting adjourned for ten minutes," Dante commanded. "Marcus, verify the cipher codes on those Swiss accounts. Bruno, check the perimeter guards again."
As the capos grumbled and dispersed to different corners of the room, Dante turned back to Jamaima. He reached out, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her out into the quiet corridor just outside the war room, closing the heavy steel door behind them.
