Chapter 12 - The Commission at Noon
The walnut-paneled conference room on the fifth floor of the Moretti Holdings tower smelled of old paper, expensive cigars, and the kind of heavy, silent tension that preceded an execution or a coronation.
There were seven men seated around the massive oval table—elderly patriarchs of the Chicago families, syndicate capos from the western suburbs, and financiers who wore Savile Row suits and carried multi-million-dollar portfolios. They were the remnant of the old guard, men who had survived decades of turf wars, federal crackdowns, and internal coups by being smarter and colder than everyone else in the room.
When Damien pushed the heavy double doors open, all seven pairs of eyes snapped toward the entrance. But it wasn't Damien they were staring at.
It was the woman walking beside him.
Ellie wore a sharp, tailored charcoal-grey pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a severe, elegant chignon that left her face striking and completely composed. She carried a single leather portfolio tucked under her arm, walking with the balanced, unhurried stride of someone who belonged in the room just as much as any capo at the table.
Salvatore Moretti, Damien’s uncle and the nominal head of the commission's advisory council, cleared his throat from the head of the table. He was a man in his late seventies with silver hair brushed straight back and eyes like chips of slate.
"Damien," Sal said, nodding curtly to his nephew before shifting his gaze to Ellie. "And Dr. Vance. We didn't expect to see you at the commission table this morning."
"Dr. Vance is here in her official capacity as Lead Financial Consultant to Moretti Holdings," Damien said smoothly, pulling out the chair to the right of his own and gesturing for Ellie to sit. "She is the one who decrypted Evelyn’s terminal, secured the offshore ledger, and handed us the names of every councilman currently taking payouts from the Boston syndicate. If any man in this room has an objection to her presence, he is welcome to state it now."
Silence settled over the room like a wet blanket. No one spoke. No one even shifted in their leather chairs. The older capos exchanged cautious, calculating glances. They had heard the rumors about the brilliant neurologist’s sister who had out-audited half of Wall Street just to protect her brother, but seeing her standing here, calm and untouchable beneath the collective weight of the Chicago underworld, was entirely different.
"The ledger is clean," Salvatore said after a long, assessing moment, leaning forward and resting his weathered hands on the wood. "Evelyn’s assets have been frozen. The eastern docks are back under our control. The board of the holding company has already voted unanimously to ratify the restructuring plan Dr. Vance drafted last night."
Sal looked directly at Ellie, a faint, grudging respect flickering in his slate-colored eyes. "You move fast, young lady. In our business, hesitation usually gets you buried in a swamp. You survived your first night in the war room."
"I didn't survive it, Mr. Moretti," Ellie replied, her voice steady, crisp, and carrying across the quiet room without a trace of tremor. "I managed it. There's a distinct difference."
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A low rumble of appreciation—part amusement, part shock—rippled through the older men around the table. Damien seated himself beside her, his shoulder brushing hers, a dark, unmistakable pride evident in the way his jaw tightened.
"Let's get to the business of the eastern expansion," Damien said, opening his own portfolio. "We have a city to run."
