Chapter 5 - The Friday Commission
The Brooklyn waterfront warehouse smelled of damp concrete, diesel, and old blood.
Inside the private meeting room, seven men sat around a heavy oak table covered in blueprints, ledgers, and whiskey glasses. These were the capos and elders of the Moretti syndicate—men who had backed Adrien’s father and expected Adrien to maintain the status quo of blood, business, and untouchable isolation.
At the head of the table sat Adrien, staring impassively at the glass of amber liquid in front of him.
To his right sat Uncle Vincenzo, an old-school enforcer whose face was lined with scars from the turf wars of the nineties.
“The word on the street is embarrassing, Adrien,” Vincenzo said, slamming a heavy hand onto the table. “Isabella Romano came to us in tears yesterday. She says you’re spending your afternoons playing house with a maid and her bastard child. Is it true?”
The other men murmured among themselves, shifting uneasily in their seats.
Adrien slowly raised his head. His gaze swept around the room, resting on each man until they fell dead silent.
“My personal life is not on the agenda,” Adrien said, his voice flat and lethal.
“Everything in this organization is on the agenda when it threatens our unity!” Vincenzo shouted, leaning forward. “The Romano family controls the dock shipping lines. Isabella is supposed to be your wife by winter! You’re alienating our biggest alliance over a kitchen maid and a toddler who doesn't even carry your name!”
Adrien stood up so fast his chair screeched against the concrete floor.
“Say one more word about them,” Adrien whispered, the deadliness in his tone silencing every breath in the room, “and you won't live to see winter, Vincenzo.”
The older man glared at him, his chest heaving with rage. “You’re throwing away twenty-four years of empire for a little girl who isn't even yours? What is she to you, Adrien? A weakness? A pet?”
“She is human,” Adrien snapped. “Unlike everyone sitting at this table.”
Before Vincenzo could retort, the heavy steel door of the warehouse burst open.
One of Adrien’s personal guards stumbled inside, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, clutching a radio in his shaking hand.
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“Boss!” the guard gasped, gasping for air. “The estate... someone broke into the servants’ quarters on the West Wing! They took the girl!”
The glass in Adrien’s hand shattered, amber liquid and jagged crystal spraying across the concrete floor.
