Chapter 8 - The Summit at the Plaza
Three weeks later, the annual high-council summit of the New York syndicates was held in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel.
It was the most exclusive, dangerous gathering in the tri-state area. Representatives from the Italian families, the Irish dock syndicates, and the financial cartels gathered behind closed doors to divide territory, negotiate tax rates, and settle disputes before they spilled out onto the streets.
When the heavy gilded double doors of the ballroom swung open at exactly 8:00 PM, all conversation around the massive horseshoe-shaped mahogany table died instantly.
Victor Costello walked in first, impeccably dressed in a custom three-piece navy tuxedo, his dark hair neatly parted, his expression carved from granite.
And walking right beside him, with her hand resting lightly on the crook of his arm, was me.
Every head around the table snapped toward us. Sal Marcone, the aging boss of the Queens faction, dropped his cigar into an ashtray with a sharp clatter. Dominic Moretti, whose family controlled the Brooklyn shipping lanes, stared in absolute disbelief.
Victor led me directly to the center seats at the head of the table—the seats traditionally reserved for the supreme boss and his most trusted advisor.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Victor said, his voice echoing smoothly across the cavernous ballroom.
"Victor..." Marcone stammered, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes darting suspiciously between Victor and the platinum signet ring gleaming on my finger. "We didn't expect you to bring a guest to the high council. Protocol dictates—"
"Protocol," Victor interrupted smoothly, pulling out my chair and waiting for me to sit down before taking his own seat beside me, "is whatever I decide it is."
Moretti scowled, resting his heavy forearms on the table. "With all due respect, Costello, this is a business summit for syndicate heads, not a social club. Who the hell is she?"
I didn't wait for Victor to answer. I leaned forward, resting my hands flat against the mahogany table, letting the platinum signet ring catch the brilliant light of the crystal chandelier overhead.
"My name is Sadi Hayes," I said, my voice clear, steady, and carrying across the silent room with absolute authority. "And as of today, I manage the internal audits, asset allocation, and security compliance for the entire Costello empire."
The room erupted into a flurry of murmurs. Moretti sneered, shaking his head. "An auditor? You brought an accountant to the commission?"
"She’s not an accountant, Dominic," Victor replied, his voice dropping into a dangerous, glacial register as he poured a glass of sparkling water. "She’s the one who audits your shipping manifests, tracks your offshore accounts, and decides whether your family stays in business or gets wiped off the map before midnight."
Moretti’s face flushed a furious crimson, but before he could retort, I slid a thin manila folder across the table directly in front of him.
He looked down at it suspiciously. "What is this?"
"That," I said with a faint, chilling smile, "is a complete forensic breakdown of the tax fraud your nephew has been running through your Red Hook import terminals for the past six months. The federal prosecutor’s office already has a mirrored copy on a secure server, timed to automatically release to the FBI if anything happens to me, my brother, or Mr. Costello."
May you like
Moretti went completely pale, his hands trembling as he stared at the folder. The room fell into absolute, terrified silence. In the underworld, guns and muscle were common, but absolute financial exposure was an executioner's sword.
Victor looked over at me, a flicker of profound pride and dark adoration burning in his stormy gray eyes.
