Chapter 4 - The Plaza Assembly
The Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel had been closed to the public for the afternoon under the guise of a private political fundraiser. Four armed men in dark suits stood guard outside the ornate mahogany double doors leading into the grand dining room.
When Damian walked down the hallway with Sienna on his arm and Silas trailing three paces behind, the guards immediately straightened, pulling the doors open without a word.
Inside, the grand chandelier lit a long oval table crafted from dark walnut.
Seated around the table were the heads of New York’s underworld. To the left sat Don Lorenzo Moretti, an elderly man with snow-white hair and liver-spotted hands who had ruled the Brooklyn waterfront for forty years. To his right was Carmine Falcone, a sleek, sharp-featured man in his late forties who controlled the waste management and construction rackets in Queens.
Sitting at the far end of the table, looking like a vulture in an ill-fitting leather jacket, was Viktor Nikolli.
Viktor was fifty, with a shaved head, a thick gold chain hanging over a black turtleneck, and eyes as cold and lifeless as a shark’s. Three large Albanian bodyguards stood behind his chair, their jacket buttons unfastened.
The room fell dead silent as Damian entered. Every eye slid from Damian to the stunning woman on his arm.
"Damian," Don Moretti boomed, his deep voice echoing under the high ceilings. "You bring a woman to a Commission meeting? We are here to discuss blood and street paper, not social hour."
"She isn't a social guest, Don Lorenzo," Damian said smoothly, pulling out a high-backed leather chair at the head of the table. He guided Sienna into the seat, then took his own place beside her. "She is the subject of Viktor’s grievance."
Viktor slammed his thick palm onto the walnut table. "She is the sister of a thief! Her brother stole forty grand from my Astoria books! My enforcer went to collect what was mine, and your man Silas killed him and took the girl!"
"Your enforcer," Damian said, leaning back and resting his hands calmly on the wooden armrests, "was Mickey Dolan. A man who was operating inside my club without paying his tribute tax. And he didn't just try to collect a debt, Viktor. He attempted to abduct a woman who had just invoked the Corsican Drop."
A collective murmur rippled across the table.
Carmine Falcone leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "The Corsican Drop? That code hasn't been recognized since the Commission redrew the dock borders in 2014. Who is she?"
"She is Sienna Hayes," Damian announced, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "Daughter of Detective Robert Hayes."
Don Moretti’s old eyes widened slightly. He looked at Sienna, examining the sharp line of her jaw and the green velvet dress. "Hayes... The Hound? The cop who pulled your sister out of the crossfire at the docks twelve years ago?"
"The very same," Damian replied. "Her father earned sanctuary for his bloodline that day. My father swore an oath before he died that the Russo house would honor it. When Mickey put his hands on her throat, she invoked the signal. She is under my personal protection. Her debts are my debts. Her enemies are my enemies."
Viktor stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards. "This is bullshit! You're using an ancient technicality to steal my street money and humiliate my crew! The cop is dead! The old rules don't apply to an Albanian book!"
Damian didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his voice.
"The rules of the Commission apply to everyone who operates within five hundred miles of this city, Viktor," Damian said softly. "If you break sanctuary under my roof, you aren't just insulting me. You are telling Don Lorenzo and Carmine that your street debts are more valuable than the oaths that keep us from slaughtering each other in the streets."
Don Moretti looked at Viktor, his old face darkening into an expression of severe disappointment.
"Sit down, Viktor," Moretti commanded.
"Don Lorenzo—" Viktor started.
"I said sit down," the old man growled. "Damian is right. An oath made by his father to a man who saved a Russo life stands above forty thousand dollars of street paper. If we abandon blood sanctuary, we are no better than common street gangs killing each other over corner blocks."
Viktor’s jaw worked silently. He slowly lowered himself back into his chair, his icy glare locked onto Sienna. If looks could kill, she would have been reduced to ash on the spot.
"The debt remains, however," Carmine Falcone noted pragmatically. "Leo Hayes owes forty thousand dollars to Viktor's ledger. How will that be settled, Damian?"
Damian reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He unscrewed a heavy silver fountain pen, wrote a figure swiftly across the paper, tore the check out, and slid it down the long table toward Viktor.
The check stopped directly in front of the Albanian boss.
Viktor looked down at the paper. His eyes widened.
"One hundred thousand dollars," Damian said calmly. "Forty thousand for the principal debt. Sixty thousand as a final buy-out of every paper, contract, or claim your family holds against the Hayes name. From this second forward, if anyone connected to your syndicate so much as looks at Sienna or Leo Hayes, it will be treated as an act of war against the Russo family."
The room was deathly quiet.
Viktor looked from the check to Damian, then finally at Sienna. He slowly picked up the check, folded it in half, and tucked it into his leather jacket.
"The debt is cleared," Viktor said, his voice laced with venom. "For now."
"We are adjourned," Don Moretti declared, tapping his signet ring against his glass.
As the bosses began to stand up and gather their coats, Damian turned to Sienna. He reached across the small space between their chairs, taking her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was tight.
"You did well," he murmured.
Before she could answer, Silas leaned down over Damian’s shoulder, his phone pressed tightly to his ear.
"Boss," Silas whispered, his tone urgent. "We found Leo. But we've got a problem."
May you like
Damian didn't loosen his grip on Sienna's hand. "What kind of problem?"
"He isn't hiding," Silas said, his eyes flicking nervously toward Sienna. "He's being held in a private warehouse at the Brooklyn Navy Yard... by Viktor's younger brother."
