Chapter 8 - The Den of Lions
The back corridor of the St. Jude Social Club was narrow, lined with framed photographs of old prizefighters and dead capos.
I wheeled myself forward, my rubber tires squeaking faintly on the red linoleum floor. Luca walked on my left, shotgun held low against his leg. His four soldiers fanned out behind us, silent, disciplined, their coats unbuttoned. Fay walked directly behind my right wheel, her footsteps light, her jaw set like stone.
We reached the arched entrance to the main dining room.
The room was packed. Twenty men—capos, bookmakers, and corrupt city officials—were gathered around the long banquet table in the center. Sal Leone was standing at the head of the table, holding a magnum of champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other, roaring with laughter as he toasted a burly man with silver hair sitting to his right.
Valenti.
My father’s godson was laughing along with him, a stack of hundred-dollar bills sitting on the white tablecloth next to his plate.
"To the new management of the north docks!" Sal shouted, raising the bottle. "To progress, boys! And to Carmine, who should be calling any minute to tell us the old dog has been put to sleep!"
The room erupted in cheers, glasses clinking against glasses.
I wheeled myself through the archway into the center of the room.
"You should've checked Carmine's phone before you uncorked the champagne, Sal," I said, my voice cutting through the noise like an axe through frozen pine.
The room died instantly.
The laughter cut off mid-breath. Glasses hung frozen halfway to mouths. Sal Leone’s smile vanished so fast it looked like someone had slapped the skin off his face. The magnum of champagne slipped from his fingers, hitting the carpeted floor with a muffled thud, foaming green wine spreading across the rug.
Valenti froze, his silver fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes bulging as if he had just seen a corpse rise from a crypt.
"Dominic?" Valenti whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood.
Sal took a terrified step backward, knocking his high-backed chair over with a loud crash. "What the hell is this? Carmine was supposed to—"
"Carmine is currently lying on the floor of my study with two holes in his chest," I said, rolling forward until my chair stopped at the foot of the banquet table, five feet from Valenti. "And Rocco and Johnny are keeping him company."
A dozen men at the table reached for their holsters.
*Clack-clack.*
Behind me, Luca and his four men leveled their automatic shotguns and submachine guns, the black barrels catching the warm glow of the chandeliers.
"Anyone who touches iron dies before they clear leather," Luca said, his aged voice carrying the terrifying authority of forty years of murder. "Hands flat on the table. Every single one of you."
The room obeyed. Twenty men, who thirty seconds earlier thought they ruled the city, slammed their palms flat against the white tablecloth, sweating through their three-thousand-dollar suits.
Sal was trembling, his back pressed against the wood-paneled wall. "Dominic... listen to me. This was a misunderstanding. Carmine came to me. He told me you were dying. He told me the family was falling apart—"
"Carmine didn't come to you, Sal," I said, pulling the folded lap blanket back to reveal the Colt .45 resting on my thighs. "You paid Dr. Mercer fifty grand to poison my nervous system. You paid Tico to sabotage my home. And you paid my father’s godson two hundred thousand dollars to steal my shipping lines."
I turned my head slowly, fixing my gaze on Valenti.
The silver-haired man broke. Tears welled up in his eyes, his cheeks flushing crimson with shame and terror.
"Dominic, please," Valenti begged, his hands trembling violently on the table. "I have kids. Sal threatened my family. He said if I didn't open the gates, he’d burn my house down—"
"You sat at my father's table for thirty years," I said, my voice dead, devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying. "He gave you your first car. He paid for your daughter's wedding. And the second you thought I couldn't stand on my own two feet, you sold my name for paper."
I picked up the Colt.
Valenti squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving with silent sobs.
"Look at me, Valenti," I ordered.
He didn't open his eyes.
Fay stepped forward from behind my chair. She didn't look at the guns. She didn't look at the mobsters. She walked over to Valenti's chair, reached out with her bandaged hand, and swept the stack of hundred-dollar bills off the table, sending the banded money scattering across the floor like leaves.
"He told you to look at him," Fay said, her voice cutting through the room with freezing contempt. "Have the guts to look the man in the eyes while you steal his father's coat."
Valenti opened his eyes, staring at Fay in utter shock, then down at the barrel of my gun.
I didn't pull the trigger.
Death was too easy for a man like Valenti. In our world, exile was a hundred times worse.
"You're stripped," I told Valenti. "Your crews belong to Luca now. Your house in Gladwyne belongs to the Corso foundation. You have until sunrise to take your wife and your clothes and get out of Pennsylvania. If I ever see your face north of the Mason-Dixon line again, I won't use a gun. I'll let Luca handle it with a knife."
Valenti slumped forward, burying his face in his hands, weeping openly.
I turned the chair back toward Sal Leone.
Sal was sweating profusely, his silk tie loosened, his hands raised in surrender. "Dominic... what do you want? Name your price. The commission—"
"The commission is meeting on Friday," I said, leaning forward in my chair. "And you are going to walk into that room and tell them that the Leone family is surrendering all rights to the north docks. You are going to sign over thirty percent of your trucking routes to the Corso family to compensate for the damage Carmine caused to my house."
"Thirty percent?" Sal choked. "That’s half my business!"
"Then you can keep your business and let Luca bury you in the cellar under your own kitchen," I replied coldly. "Choose, Sal. You have ten seconds."
Sal looked at the four shotguns pointed at his chest. He looked at Valenti weeping at the table. He looked at the Colt .45 resting in my lap.
And finally, he looked at my legs—still paralyzed, still bound to the iron frame of the wheelchair.
For the first time that night, Sal Leone saw the truth:
The chair didn't make me weak.
The chair had simply removed every distraction, leaving only the cold, lethal core of the man who had built this empire from the dirt.
May you like
"I'll sign," Sal whispered, his voice broken. "I'll sign whatever you want, Dominic."
***
