Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the CommissionBy eight o'clock the following morning, the news of Dominic Moretti’s sudden 'disappearance' had sent shockwaves through the Chicago underworld.
The Commission—a governing body of five powerful crime bosses who controlled the various territories across the Midwest—had called an emergency closed-door meeting at a private, secure estate in Oak Brook, Illinois.
The estate’s grand boardroom was heavily guarded by over twenty armed mercenaries. Sitting around a massive oval marble table were four men who ruled multi-million-dollar criminal networks.
At the head of the table sat Don Carmelo Lucchesi—an eighty-year-old mafia patriarch with silver hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a reputation for calculating, cold efficiency. To his left sat Joey 'The Hammer' Bruno, a hot-tempered boss from the South Side, and to his right sat Marcus Sterling, an educated, ruthless broker who managed the syndicate’s offshore banking channels.
The heavy double oak doors swung open.
I walked into the room alone, wearing a immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, a dark silk tie, and a long dark trench coat over my shoulders. I carried no weapons. I didn't need any. My reputation walked three steps ahead of me.
Every boss at the table straightened up, their hands instinctively moving closer to their armrests.
“Mason,” Don Carmelo spoke first, his deep, gravelly voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls. “You took your time getting here.”
I pulled out a leather chair at the far end of the table and sat down, leaning back, crossing my legs with calm composure. “Traffic was bad because of the blizzard, Don Carmelo.”
“Don’t give us that bull, Mason!” Joey Bruno barked, slamming his palm onto the table. “Moretti is dead! His top lieutenants were wiped out overnight! His accounts were seized, his docks were taken over by your enforcers, and his family was run out of the state! You launched an unprovoked war against a Commission member without our approval!”
I turned my head slowly, fixing my cold, dead eyes on Joey Bruno.
“Unprovoked?” I asked softly.
Joey flinched slightly under my stare, but pressed on. “We have rules, Mason! You don't execute a sitting boss over some personal dispute! The Commission exists to protect our business interests! If you can just put a bullet in Moretti’s head whenever you feel like it, none of us are safe!”
I reached into my coat pocket.
Joey’s two personal bodyguards standing behind his chair immediately reached into their suits.
“Stand down,” Don Carmelo commanded sharply, raising his hand to silence his men. He looked at me. “Let him speak.”
I pulled out a thick Manila envelope and tossed it onto the center of the marble table. It slid across the smooth surface, stopping right in front of Don Carmelo.
“Open it,” I said.
Don Carmelo picked up the envelope with his age-spotted hands and pulled out the contents. Inside were dozens of certified bank statements, wire transfers, and stolen ledger copies recovered from Dominic Moretti’s private safe hours after his death.
As Don Carmelo flipped through the pages, his bushy eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. Marcus Sterling leaned over to look at the documents, his face turning pale.
“Moretti wasn't just stealing from me, Carmelo,” I explained, my voice steady and cold. “He was skimming fifteen percent off the top of every joint shipping container coming through the Port of Chicago for the last four years. He set up an independent laundering account in Zurich using your family’s registered business credentials.”
Don Carmelo’s hands tightened around the paper until the edges creaked. “Is this authenticated?”
“Marcus can verify the routing numbers right now,” I replied, nodding toward the banking broker.
Marcus Sterling quickly pulled out a secure tablet, typed in the primary account code from the paper, and scanned the screen. After ten seconds, Marcus looked up at Don Carmelo, shaking his head in anger.
“It’s real, Don Carmelo,” Marcus confirmed low. “Moretti stole over eighteen million dollars from the Commission’s central fund over the past thirty-six months.”
Joey Bruno went quiet, his arrogant posture deflating as he realized he had just defended a traitor.
Don Carmelo set the documents down on the table, taking a long, deep breath. He looked across the oval table at me, his sharp old eyes assessing the man sitting before him.
“Moretti deserved to die for stealing from the Commission,” Don Carmelo conceded slowly. “You did our work for us, Mason. But... rumor on the street says this wasn't about the money. Rumor says you did it for a woman and three kids you found on Michigan Avenue.”
The room went dead quiet.
I leaned forward, resting my hands on the edge of the marble table, looking directly into the eyes of every boss in the room.
“That woman is my wife,” I stated clearly, my voice carrying an absolute, terrifying weight. “And those three children are my legitimate heirs. From this day forward, any man who speaks her name, any man who looks at my family with anything less than absolute respect, will suffer the exact same fate as Dominic Moretti.”
I stood up from the table, buttoning my suit jacket.
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“I am taking a ninety-day leave of absence from Commission meetings,” I declared, not asking for permission, but delivering a decree. “Viktor will manage my territory’s daily operations. If any of you have an issue with that arrangement... you know where my penthouse is.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and walked out of the boardroom, leaving the most powerful criminal leaders in the Midwest sitting in absolute silence.
