Chapter 14 - The Reaper's Council Forms

The Oceanus Rex docked in Miami under military escort, its decks lined with men in suits clutching Prophecy Tokens like rosaries. Leo emerged first, apron folded over his arm, family trailing behind. No press conference. No victory lap. Just a black Escalade waiting with tinted windows.Emil Voss knelt on the pier. "Reaper. The families convene. Your word—law."Leo glanced at Sophie, yawning beside Elena. "Lunch first. Then talk."Marchetti's Table - 1 PMThe restaurant reopened to a line wrapping three blocks. No reservations needed—perfect strangers knelt as Leo passed, offering gold chains, deeds, even a diamond-encrusted spatula. Elena turned them into a "tip jar" that overflowed onto the floor.Inside, a backroom had transformed overnight. The storage pantry became The Reaper's Chamber: mahogany table, 24 leather chairs, walls lined with steel safes. Twelve crime lords waited, heads bowed. Vincenzo Russo stood at attention by a coffee urn.Leo entered, hanging his apron. "Who's late?"Vincenzo flinched. "No one dares, Don."Leo sat at the head—first time noticing the chair was elevated, carved with scythe patterns. "Business only. No bowing during tiramisu service."The bosses nodded like synchronized soldiers.The AgendaVincenzo unrolled a velvet chart. "Reaper's domains: North America, Europe, Asia Pacific. Rivals eliminated. Revenue streams secured."Leo scanned the numbers. "$4 billion? That's... my supplier costs."Don Caruso cleared his throat. "Your cut, Don. Laundered through 147 restaurants. Clean as your plates."Sophie peeked from the kitchen pass-through, eyes wide. Elena pulled her back gently.Leo tapped the chart. "This 'Blood Olive Fund'—what's the vig?"Vincenzo beamed. "Protection for 8,000 establishments. Your name alone drops crime 92%. No enforcers needed."Leo frowned. "Extortion?""No!" Caruso protested. "Voluntary! They beg for Reaper insurance!"Leo leaned back. "Redirect 80% to community kitchens. Free meals for single mothers. Kids' lunch programs."Silence. Jaws dropped.Vincenzo stammered, "But... the war chest?""Feed people," Leo said flatly. "Hungry men start wars."The bosses scrambled to take notes. First decree logged.Item Two: The Prophecy ProtocolsDon Morelli slid a thick binder forward. "Reaper's Codex—Version 1.0." Rules etched in gold leaf:No violence near certified Marchetti suppliersBlack olives = sacred immunity markersCriticizing Reaper's ragù = immediate excommunicationTiramisu Tuesdays mandatory for all lieutenantsLeo flipped pages, pausing at Rule #47: "Any chef rating Marchetti's below 4.8 stars receives educational visit.""Delete that," Leo said. "And this 'eternal fealty tattoo' requirement.""But Don—""Delete."Item Three: The ShadowElena entered with coffee, placing Leo's mug precisely. The bosses froze—she moved like she owned them. Which, increasingly, she did."Volkov," Leo said quietly. "His files?"Vincenzo produced a USB drive. "Everything. Poison labs. Sunken manifests. His 'Shadow Prophecy'—counterfeit Reaper legend."Leo plugged it into a hidden laptop. Files cascaded: chemical formulas, hit lists, and one video file labeled "Reaper Origin?"He clicked play.Grainy footage—Leo, 15 years old, first restaurant job. A drunk line cook shoved him. Leo sidestepped. Cook slipped on spilled oil, cracked his skull on the counter. Dead at 29.Next clip: Leo's first head chef role. Health inspector threatened blackmail. Found dead in his car—brake lines cut. Official ruling: suicide.Seven more incidents. Always the same: Leo nearby, calm, untouched. Aggressors met bizarre ends.Sophie watched from the doorway, pale. "Dad... was it always there?"Leo closed the laptop. "Coincidence builds reputation. Patterns create prophecy."Elena squeezed his shoulder. "Or truth finds its chef."The OathVincenzo knelt, drawing a ceremonial knife. "Reaper. Bind us?"Leo stood, took the blade. For the first time, he drew it across his palm—not deep, just enough for blood. He pressed his hand to the mahogany table."Feed people," he said simply. "Protect kitchens. End hunger."The twelve bosses sliced their palms in turn, pressing hands to wood. Blood oath sealed—not for conquest, but calories.Outside - 4 PMNews choppers circled. FBI vans lined the street. Protesters chanted both "Arrest the Reaper!" and "Feed the Reaper!"Sophie tugged Leo's sleeve. "Dad. You're running the mafia now. Kinda."Leo retied his apron. "No. Running restaurants. With benefits."Elena smiled for the first time in days. "My husband, the don of dinner."Vincenzo approached shyly. "Don? One request?"Leo raised an eyebrow."Could we... keep the tattoo thing? Just for loyalty photos?"Leo sighed. "Fine. But no faces in ragù."As the council dispersed—$3.2 billion redirected to soup kitchens nationwide—Leo returned to the pass-through, plating bruschetta for the line outside.The world had its first benevolent godfather.And his first decree? Free bread.