Chapter 17 - The Council in RomeIn early May, the heads of the five major Syndicate families called an extraordinary summit at a private estate in the hills outside Rome.
It was the first regional assembly since Damian had absorbed the Moretti territories, and tension ran high among the older bosses. They feared Damian’s sudden, absolute consolidation of power—and rumors had spread that the ruthless capo of Naples had grown soft due to domestic distractions.
The grand conference room was heavy with the scent of vintage cigars and espresso. Four elderly bosses sat around a circular marble table, flanked by their top lieutenants and armed bodyguards.
The heavy double doors swung open.
Damian walked in alone, accompanied only by Paul Ferrell. He wore an immaculate bespoke suit, carrying no weapons, his demeanor smooth, calm, and terrifyingly composed.
"Damian," Don Camillo, the senior boss of the Sicilian families, acknowledged, leaning forward on his silver-topped cane. "You took your time arriving. We were beginning to think the rumors were true."
Damian took his seat at the head of the table, resting his hands flat on the polished marble. "What rumors, Camillo?"
"That you spent the last six months playing nursemaid in Naples," Camillo replied with a cold, probing smile. "That you dismantled Gianna Moretti not for business, but because of a housemaid."
A subtle, dangerous quiet fell over the room. The other bosses watched Damian closely, waiting for a sign of anger, hesitation, or defense.
Damian didn't flinch. He leaned back in his leather chair, fixing Camillo with a gaze so icy it silenced the entire room.
"Gianna Moretti made the mistake of believing my family was vulnerable," Damian said, his voice dropping into a quiet, lethal register. "She tested my boundaries, and her entire organization was liquidated in three hours. If any man at this table wishes to test whether my domestic life has made me soft, I invite him to step outside this room and try."
No one moved. No one spoke.
Don Camillo stared at Damian for five agonizing seconds, then slowly lowered his head in a gesture of absolute respect. "The shipping ports are yours, Costa. Uncontested."
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When Damian stepped back into his black sedan thirty minutes later, Paul Ferrell let out a slow exhale from the driver's seat. "You didn't give them an inch, boss."
"There was no inch to give," Damian said, looking out the tinted window as the Roman countryside passed by. "They needed to understand that protecting what I love doesn't make me weak. It makes me indestructible."
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