Chapter 5 - The War Council
The Commission met in a neutral location: a private, windowless dining room in an high-end Italian restaurant in Midtown Manhattan. The air was thick with the smell of expensive cigars, rich espresso, and deep-seated paranoia.
Sitting around the long oak table were the heads of the Five Families, surrounded by their primary capos and bodyguards. Vincenzo Conti sat near the head of the table, looking paler and more frail than he had at the wedding two days ago. The execution of his closest friend, Salvatore, had shaken him to his core.
When the double doors opened, Matteo walked in first, wearing a tailored charcoal-gray suit that screamed authority. But he didn't walk alone. Isabella walked beside him, her arm looped securely through his. She wore a sleek, high-necked dark navy dress, her hair pulled back into an elegant chignon. She carried herself with absolute poise, though her heart was pounding against her ribs.
Every eye in the room locked onto them. A whisper ran through the older mobsters. It was unheard of for a woman to sit at a Commission meeting, let alone a bride of two days.
Leo Rienzi—Matteo’s father, a cold man with slicked-back white hair and cruel eyes—frowned deeply from his seat across the table.
"Matteo," Leo said, his voice like gravel under a wheel. "What is the meaning of this? This is a meeting of the Don’s. Why did you bring a girl?"
Matteo didn't lose his temper. He walked to the head of the table, pulled out a heavy leather chair next to his own, and guided Isabella into it.
"Isabella is not just 'a girl,' Leo," Matteo said calmly, taking his own seat. He placed his hands flat on the table, his ring glittering under the chandelier. "She is the Don’s wife. She is the living bridge between the Conti and Rienzi families. And given that her family was targeted by a traitor working with foreign interests, she has every right to sit here."
Vincenzo Conti cleared his throat, looking at his daughter with a complex mixture of surprise and stern approval. "Matteo speaks the truth. Salvatore was a dog. He betrayed my house. Matteo handled it with honor."
Leo scowled, looking at Isabella with open disdain. "Honor? He put a bullet in your underboss's head on your own territory! And now he brings her here like a trophy. Tell me, Matteo, has the sweet Conti girl softened you already? Did you forget how to lead?"
The air in the room turned sub-zero. Matteo’s capos behind him shifted their hands toward their holsters.
Before Matteo could speak, Isabella leaned forward. Her hands were flat on the polished table, her posture rigid, her eyes burning with a fiery intensity that shocked everyone in the room.
"My husband softened?" Isabella’s voice rang out clear, sharp, and commanding, cutting through the heavy air. "My husband eliminated a cancer in my father's ranks that your intelligence network completely missed, Don Leo. He secured the docks, preserved the truce, and protected the supply lines that fill every pocket at this table. If that is what you call 'soft,' then perhaps this Commission needs more of it."
Silence descended upon the room. Dead, suffocating silence.
No woman had ever spoken to Leo Rienzi like that. No woman had ever spoken at the Commission like that.
Leo’s face turned red with anger, his fists tightening on the table. "You mouthy little—"
"Careful, Father," Matteo interrupted, his voice dropping into a register so dark and lethal that even the veteran capos in the back stood up straighter. Matteo leaned forward, his grey eyes locked onto his father’s. "You are speaking to my wife. Disrespect her again, and we will find out if this truce can survive a father and son war."
Leo stared at his son, recognizing the absolute, uncompromising truth in Matteo's threat. Matteo wasn't bluffing. He would burn the entire city down to defend her.
Slowly, Leo leaned back, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips. "It seems the little bird has talons," he muttered, raising his glass of wine. "Fine. Let's talk about the Russians."
May you like
Isabella sat back in her chair, her heart hammering wildly against her chest, but her face remained a mask of iron. Beneath the table, she felt Matteo’s large hand slide over hers, his fingers weaving firmly through hers, squeezing gently.
A team, she remembered his words from the kitchen. They weren't just a political arrangement anymore. They were an empire in the making.
