Page 6 of Deadly Alliance
"Traffic near the docks, Don Salvatore," I say smoothly, offering a razor-thin smile. "I had to handle a minor infestation. Irish rats."
Orlando’s face purples with rage. He slams a thick, calloused hand against the table. "You arrogant little prick! You hit the south warehouse last night without Commission approval! You're operating in contested territory!"
"Contested?" I raise a dark brow, my voice dropping to a lethal calm. "The Vellutini family has bled for the south docks for decades, Orlando. If you can't hold your own borders, don't cry when I have to clean up the mess."
"Enough."
Salvatore doesn't shout. He doesn't have to. The single word drops like an anvil, instantly crushing the argument. Orlando snaps his mouth shut, his chest heaving. I simply tilt my head, maintaining my relaxed posture, though my muscles are coiled tight as wire.
"I did not call you here to listen to you bicker like street thugs," Salvatore continues, his dark eyes sweeping over the three of us. "The Italians have become a laughingstock in the underworld. We are bleeding money. We are bleeding men. And we are completely distracted from the knife hovering directly over our throats."
Salvatore reaches into the breast pocket of his tailored suit and pulls out a stack of glossy photographs. He tosses them onto the center of the mahogany table. They slide across the polished wood, stopping between Orlando and me.
I lean forward, my eyes scanning the images. They are aerial shots. Ships, cargo containers, heavy cranes, and fortified perimeters.
"The Port of San Marco," Salvatore announces grimly.
I study the photos, my mind working rapidly. When the old families carved up and shared the city territories sixty years ago, that specific port fell to the Italians, but it was small, weak, and barely functional. It was practically a junkyard. Nobody paid attention to it for decades.
"Look at it now," Salvatore commands, tapping a weathered finger against the wood. "Over the years, the port has grown. The city expanded the deep-water channels. It has become a site of major economic importance, a damn goldmine. It expands our influence, multiplies our income, and solidifies our control over the entire eastern seaboard."
"So, we lock it down," Orlando says, trying to sound authoritative. "I'll move fifty of my best men to the perimeter by midnight."
"You will do no such thing," Salvatore snaps, shutting him down instantly. "Because if you move fifty men, Cassio will move sixty to counter you, and a bloodbath will start before the sun even sets. While you two are playing your pathetic game of tug-of-war, the wolves are already at the gate. The Irish and the Russians want this port, Orlando. They want that money and that power."
An oppressive silence fills the room. Even Lombardi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The Bratva and the Irish Mob forming an alliance to take the port isn't just a threat, it’s an extinction-level event for our syndicate. If they choke off our primary smuggling and shipping routes, we will wither and die within a year.
"They are waiting for us to weaken ourselves," I say. "They are letting the cold war between my family and the Genovese soften the defenses. Once we’ve thinned our own ranks, they’ll sweep in and take the docks."
"Exactly," Salvatore says, leaning back in his grand chair. "Which is why this childish feud ends today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today."
"I am perfectly willing to end it," Orlando says, jutting his chin out stubbornly. "As soon as the Vellutini boy pays reparations for the casinos he burned and hands over the eastern—"
"There will be no reparations. There will be no negotiations," Salvatore interrupts, his voice drops an octave, echoing with terrifying finality. "The internal war is over. I am mandating a permanent truce, effective immediately."
I narrow my eyes. A mandated truce is just a piece of paper. Orlando will smile to Salvatore's face and try to poison my whiskey the next day. "A verbal truce won't hold the port, Don Salvatore. The Russians won't respect a handshake. They smell blood."
"I know," Salvatore replies, his gaze locking onto mine. "Which is why the head of this Commission is calling for a permanent truce by way of marriage."
The air in the room suddenly vanishes.
I freeze, my fingers tightening imperceptibly on the armrests of my chair. Across the table, Orlando looks as though he’s just been struck by a physical blow. His jaw goes slack, his dark eyes wide with shock.
"A... a marriage?" Orlando stammers, completely losing his composure.
"Yes," Salvatore says coldly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. He looks between Orlando and me. "I cannot have the next two biggest families in the Italian mafia tearing each other apart when the Russians and Irish are threatening war. It’s a liability I will no longer tolerate. I need you two families to unite. I need you to marry and forever be bound by blood."
"You want me to marry into his family?" I scoff. The thought makes my skin crawl. Tying my bloodline, my legacy, to the archaic, sinking ship that is the Genovese family? It’s a fucking insult.
"I will not give any of my daughters to this... this violent animal!" Orlando roars, finally finding his voice. He stands up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards. "He is a butcher! He has no respect for the old ways! I will not allow my flesh and blood to share a bed with the man who killed my Capos!"
"Sit down, Orlando," Salvatore commands, a lethal edge in his rasp.
"Don Salvatore, with all due respect—"
"I said, sit the fuck down!" Salvatore roars, slamming both hands onto the table, half-rising from his seat. The raw, terrifying power of the Capo dei Capi floods the room, pursuing any further rebellion.
Orlando pales, his throat working as he slowly lowers himself back into his chair; he is humiliated.
