Chapter 8 - THE COUNCIL'S VERDICT
The underground boardroom was bathed in dim, amber light, smelling of cigar smoke and aged leather. Twelve of Chicago’s most dangerous men sat around the mahogany table. At the head sat Don Carlo Moretti, aging but terrifying. Julian sat to his right, looking smug, confident that his backroom deals with the Volkovs and his new, 'pliable' wife had secured his position. I walked in a step behind Nikolai, dressed in a sharp black power suit, my chin held high.
“This is family business, Nikolai,” Julian sneered, gesturing at me. “Dismiss your little prop.”
“My fiancée stays,” Nikolai stated, his voice a low, vibrating threat that silenced the room. He took his seat to the Don’s left, pulling a chair close for me. “She is Moretti now.”
The Don raised a hand. “Let us begin. I step down at the end of the month. I need an heir who ensures peace, not one who invites wolves to our door.”
Julian stood immediately, launching into a rehearsed speech about modernization, aggressive expansion, and how Nikolai’s recent 'weakness' in being ambushed proved he couldn't protect the family. He spoke of alliances and strength. When he finished, a few heads nodded. Then, Nikolai slid a black folder across the table to his father. “Julian speaks of alliances. He fails to mention he bought his alliance with the Volkovs by giving them the shipping routes we fought for in the eighties. He also gave them the coordinates of my car yesterday.”
The room erupted. Julian went pale. “Lies! It’s forged!”
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I stood up, pulling a USB drive from my pocket and setting it on the table. “It isn't,” I said, my voice ringing out clearly. “The financial transfers were routed through offshore accounts. My former firm handled the shell companies. Last night, I traced the routing numbers. The money went from Volkov directly to Julian’s private cayman account. He sold his brother’s life for a seat at this table.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Don Carlo opened the folder, his eyes scanning the documents. He looked at Julian, not with anger, but with dead, absolute coldness. “You sold your blood.”
