Chapter 6 - THE COMMISSIONS RECKONING
The Italian Cultural Center in Little Italy was a grand, historic building with marble columns, vaulted ceilings, and an atmosphere thick with decades of criminal history.
At 8:00 p.m., the grand ballroom was filled with forty high-ranking mobsters, syndicate captains, and bodyguards from across the Midwest. Heavy cigar smoke hung in the air like a blue fog.
At the center of the room sat a massive round table. On one side sat Jimmy "The Needle" Russo—a fat, balding man in a gaudy purple suit, covered in gold jewelry, his greasy face twisted in arrogant fury.
Beside Russo sat two visiting syndicate bosses from Detroit, acting as neutral arbitrators for the Commission.
The heavy double doors of the ballroom swung open.
Damian Reyes walked in, flanked by Mateo Vance and four tall, muscular soldiers in tailored black suits. Damian moved with the supreme, terrifying confidence of an emperor walking into a room of minor lords.
He took his seat across from Russo, resting his large hands calmly on the mahogany table.
"Russo," Damian said, his voice echoing clearly off the marble walls. "You called me away from my dinner. This had better be important."
Russo slammed his heavy fist onto the table! "Don't play games with me, Reyes!" he roared, his fat jowls shaking. "Three weeks ago, your men kicked down the door of a tavern on 18th Street—MY territory! You assaulted one of my collectors, Marcus Kane, and forced him out of the city!"
The Detroit bosses shifted in their chairs, looking at Damian with quiet, demanding curiosity.
"Marcus Kane was a domestic abuser and a parasite," Damian said calmly, pulling a sleek cigar from his jacket and lighting it with a silver Zippo. He blew a smooth stream of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "He was beating a woman who works under my roof."
"I don't give a damn about some maid!" Russo spat viciously. "Her father owed my syndicate two hundred thousand dollars! Kane was collecting my money! You had no right to interfere in Westside business!"
Damian set his Zippo down on the table with a soft click. His dark eyes locked onto Russo’s fat face, glowing with a lethal, terrifying intensity.
"Her father's debt was paid in full," Damian said coldly. "I personally signed a cashier's check for two hundred thousand dollars and handed it to Kane. The debt was settled."
"Kane never gave me the check!" Russo screamed, his face turning purple with rage. "He took your money and fled to Florida! You robbed me of my collector and my debt!"
Damian leaned forward, his massive frame projecting an overwhelming aura of pure violence.
"If your own collector stole from you, Russo, that proves you are too weak to run your own men," Damian rasped, his voice cutting through the room like a razor blade. "That is not my problem. My problem was that your man put his hands on a woman protected by the Reyes family."
Russo stood up, knocking his chair backward. "She's a nobody! A pathetic, worthless little maid! You broke Commission rules over a piece of trash!"
BEFORE THE WORDS HAD FULLY LEFT RUSSO'S MOUTH—
Damian moved with terrifying speed!
He reached across the table, grabbed Russo by his gold necklace, and slammed his fat face straight into the heavy mahogany table!
THE SOUND OF BREAKING BONE ECHOED THROUGH THE BALLROOM!
Blood sprayed across the white tablecloth as Russo shrieked in agony, clutching his shattered nose!
Russo’s bodyguards instantly reached for their shoulder holsters, but before their hands could draw steel, Mateo and Damian’s soldiers unholstered their suppressed weapons, pointing twelve barrels directly at the Westside men’s heads.
"SIT DOWN!" Mateo barked.
The entire ballroom went dead silent. The Detroit bosses sat frozen, wide-eyed with shock.
Damian held Russo’s face pinned against the bloody table, leaning down until his lips were inches from the fat man's bleeding ear.
"Her name is Elena Cruz," Damian whispered, his voice a cold, demonic terrifying growl that chilled every man in the room to the bone. "She is not a nobody. She is under my personal protection. If you ever refer to her as trash again, I will burn the Westside to ash, kill every man who wears your colors, and feed your body to the fish in Lake Michigan."
Damian shoved Russo’s bleeding face away, letting him collapse back into his chair, sobbing and holding a bloody napkin to his face.
Damian stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, not a single hair out of place.
May you like
He looked at the two Detroit bosses. "The debt is paid. The matter is closed. If the Commission has an issue with my methods, you know where to find me."
Without waiting for an answer, Damian turned and walked out of the ballroom, his polished shoes echoing against the marble, leaving forty terrified mobsters staring after him in stunned, reverent silence.
