Chapter 7 - The Grand Regency Summit
The ballroom of the Grand Regency Hotel was a study in opulence and hidden danger. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over round tables draped in black silk. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, fine scotch, and unspoken threats.
Seated around the room were the bosses of New York’s five major families, flanked by their most trusted lieutenants and security teams.
I sat at the central table, wearing a tailored charcoal tuxedo, my face an unreadable mask of bronze and stone. Beside me sat Marco, his eyes continuously scanning the perimeter of the room.
At the head of the room stood Joey Rossi. He was thirty years old, wearing a flashier suit than was necessary, a thick gold chain visible beneath his collar. His eyes were wild, fueled by ambition and cheap vodka.
“Gentlemen!” Joey announced, slamming his glass against the microphone stand to gather the room’s attention. “We are here tonight to discuss the future of our operations in this city. My uncle, God rest his soul, was a man of tradition. But tradition has made us weak! It has allowed certain people to push us around and buy off our honor with cheap wire transfers!”
Joey’s eyes snapped directly to me. A murmur swept through the ballroom.
I didn't flinch. I slowly raised my glass of scotch to my lips, took a sip, and placed it back down on the table with a soft, metallic click.
“You have something on your mind, Joey?” I asked, my voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet room.
Joey stepped down from the platform, walking toward my table, his hands tucked into his pockets.
“I’m talking about respect, Moretti,” Joey sneered, leaning over the table. “Six months ago, you humiliated my family. You took a rat named Marcus Bennett, threw fifty grand at my uncle, and threatened my chief enforcer. You made the Rossi family look weak.”
“Your uncle took the settlement because he was a wise man who understood the value of peace,” I replied smoothly. “Marcus Bennett was a nobody. The debt was settled. The matter is closed.”
“The matter isn't closed until I say it’s closed!” Joey barked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “The Rossi family wants the Brooklyn piers. We want twenty percent of your freight revenue, starting tonight. Or else, Luca, we start looking at your soft spots.”
A heavy, dangerous silence fell over the ballroom.
I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table, looking Joey straight in his bloodshot eyes. “My soft spots?”
“Everyone knows you’ve gone soft, Moretti,” Joey smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “You banished your old man’s best advisor. You banished your security chief. And word is, you’re spending all your time at your estate playing daddy to a little maid and her bastard kid.”
The air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
Marco’s hand shifted under his jacket, but I raised a single finger, stopping him instantly.
I stood up slowly. I towered over Joey Rossi, my presence suffocating the space between us.
“Joey,” I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark, so heavy, that even the veteran crime bosses at the neighboring tables sat up straight. “You are young. You inherited a name you didn't earn, and a crew you don't know how to lead. Let me explain something to you about power.”
I took a slow step toward him. Joey instinctively took a half-step back, his swagger faltering.
“My father taught me that a real man builds a fortress to protect the people he loves,” I whispered, stepping into his space until our chests almost touched. “He doesn't use women and children as leverage. He doesn't insult men who have built empires while he was still in prep school. If you touch my freight lines, I will take your business. If you approach my estate, I will end your legacy. And if you ever speak the names of the people living under my roof again, I will personally throw you off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
Joey swallowed hard, his skin turning pale. He looked around the room, hoping to find support among the other family heads.
But the old bosses—men who remembered my father and knew what I was capable of—simply looked down at their drinks or shook their heads. None of them were willing to die for Joey Rossi’s foolish pride.
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“This summit is over,” I announced to the room.
I turned my back on Joey, adjusted my cuffs, and walked out of the grand ballroom, my men forming an impenetrable shield behind me.
