Page 100 of Fire and Silk
“Last month, a distribution batch linked to Martins circled the manifest and shipped out of Palermo under a different label. It landed in Chicago. Unfortunately, the local receiver had been tagged in a prior narcotics sweep, and the authorities flagged the whole crate.”
Lira lifts another page and holds it up between two fingers.
“This is the export manifest. It’s not forged. It’s just… desperate.”
The room is silent now. No movement. Eyes are locked on Martins. One of the older dons leans slightly away from him.
Lira lays the paper back down and looks up again.
“It’s only a matter of time before the Americans figure out that Don Martins isn’t the operation. He’s just a piece.”
I smile. The first thing I taught her, know your enemies in and out. I had her study every man in this council. Every dirty, semi-clean laundry, everything, the good the bad and the ugly. I see she did her homework.
Martins doesn’t move. His mouth is slightly open, but the words won’t form. Two chairs down, Calvani stares at the table like he’s forgotten where he is. The temperature in the room doesn’t drop, but the space tightens. Breathing slows. Hands pull back.
They’re doing the math.
The Americans don’t go after the Dantès.
Not because they can’t.
Because they know better.
My father spent twenty years threading lines through federal agencies—quiet understandings, favors banked, men with clean faces who owed him dirty things. If American authorities ever caught wind of internal movement in Italy, they’d call us first. They wouldn’t raid. They’d ask questions. They’d delay press. They’d sweep the mess sideways before it spilled.
The others at this table don’t have that.
Their American ties are transactional. Fragile. Built on money, not history. If the wrong crate lands in the wrong hands, there’s no one to call. No one to shield them when the headlines drop.
They know it. And now they know Martins has already broken the skin.
Lira lets them sit in it.
“I’m lucky,” she says lightly, turning the page back over. “Some of our men in Washington have already begun working to keep the Chicago case contained. A few names have been replaced in transcripts. A lead has gone quiet. Nothing dramatic.”
She pauses. The silence holds.
“But if this council decides it no longer wishes to operate under Dantès protection—well…” she opens her hands, as if helpless, “then we’ll have to inform our contacts abroad that this is no longer our affair to manage.”
She’s not bluffing. That’s the brilliance of it. We have the ears. We have the channels. If they break ties with us, they don’t just lose port access—they lose the only thing keeping the Americans from drawing a straight line from a dockyard mistake to an international crime ring.
This isn’t a threat.
It’s a door.
She leans back, her spine never slouching, her chin lifted just slightly as she studies their faces.
“Shall we vote again?” she asks.
Then she tilts her head and adds, flat:
“Or—if you’re not in support of continued alliance with the Dantès family—you may leave now. I’ll consider your departure an official severance.”
Lira rests her hands on the table, bloodless and calm. Her fingers trace the edge of a paper. She lets the quiet stretch, lets their thoughts turn over. Every man here is calculating risk now. How many of their shipments rely on our northern docks. How many of their informants report through our men. How much damage they’d take if our hands were lifted off their shoulders.
Not one of them stands.
She glances toward Calvani. The spark in her gaze doesn’t dim.
