John Corvini placed his hand on the tablecloth. He flattened a small wrinkle near his plate, smoothing the white linen with a slow, meditative motion.
He didn't stand up. He didn't raise his voice. He simply began to speak, his tone pitched just loud enough to carry over the low hum of the ventilation, forcing every man in the room to stop breathing just to hear him.
"It was October," John said. He looked at the centerpiece of the table, a spray of white orchids, as if reading the date from the petals. "Ten years ago. The Gilded Hall. The roast was veal. The wine was a '96 Barolo."
Don Vargo, who had been retreating, stopped. He turned back, caught in the gravity of John's voice. The other conversations in the room, the Russians discussing shipping lanes, the Triads arguing territory, died out instantly.
Kevin froze. He stared at his father. This wasn't the John who lectured him on rust. This was the historian of the city's graveyard.
"Don Moretti sat where you are standing, Victor," John continued. He finally lifted his eyes, locking them onto Vargo. "He was a large man. Loud. He enjoyed the sound of his own laughter. He felt that volume was a substitute for authority."
John took a sip of water. The room waited.
"He insulted my brother. He called him a child. He called him a decoration. He asked if the third chair was a high chair."
John smiled faintly. It wasn't a cruel smile. It was the sad, weary smile of a man remembering a tragedy he had tried to prevent.
"James didn't speak. He didn't argue. He didn't have a gun. He didn't have a knife. He was holding a fountain pen. A Montblanc Meisterstück 149. Gold nib. Black resin."
Kevin looked at the empty chair beside him. He could almost see the ghost Asuma had described, the boy in the white suit.
"It took ninety seconds," John said. He checked his watch, as if verifying the timeline. "Ninety seconds to clear the table. Moretti didn't finish his laugh. The pen entered his eye socket at a fortyfivedegree angle. James didn't stab him; he placed it there. Like he was filing a document."
Don Vargo wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip. He looked at the door, calculating the distance, but he couldn't move.
"The guards drew their weapons," John went on, his voice a monotone drone, devoid of judgment. "But James was already inside their guard. He moved through them like a draft in a hallway. He used their own weight, their own confusion. He severed the carotid artery of the first guard with the dinner knife he took from Moretti's plate. He used the second guard as a shield against the third."
John paused. He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the men who remembered that night, the older Dons who still had scars or nightmares from the Gilded Hall.
"There was no shouting after the first ten seconds. Just the wet, heavy sound of things falling. Bodies hitting the floor. Silverware clattering. Heavy breathing."
Kevin felt a chill crawl up his spine. His father described the massacre not as a fight, but as a weather event. Unavoidable. Natural. Disaster.
"When it was over," John said, leaning back in his chair, "James sat back down. He picked up his napkin. He wiped a single drop of blood from his cuff. And then he finished his veal."
John let the image settle. He let them picture the boy in the white suit, eating amidst the carnage of their predecessors.
"You banned him," John said softly. "The Council passed the decree that night. James Corvini is never to attend the Summit. You called him a monster. You called him a rabid dog."
John shook his head slowly.
"You misunderstand the nature of the empty chair, Victor. You think it is a sign that we are weak? That we are missing a limb?"
John stood up.
For the first time all night, the King of the Corvini rose to his full height. He placed his hands on the back of the empty chair, gripping the leather.
"I did not leave this chair empty because I lack a third man. I left it empty to save your lives."
He looked at Vargo, then swept his gaze across the room, at the Russians, the Triads, the Irish. He looked at them with a profound, terrifying pity.
"My brother is not a rabid dog," John said, his voice dropping to a whisper that echoed like thunder in the silent room. "He is a forest fire."
He patted the leather of the chair.
"Ten years ago, this room was a forest of old, dry wood. He was merely the spark."
John's eyes hardened, the gentle father mask slipping just enough to reveal the absolute, crushing power beneath.
"I assure you, gentlemen... the forest is no healthier today."