Chapter 10 - BLOOD ON THE IVORY TERRACE
================================================================================
Five minutes later, the rusty corrugated door of the Sunnyside warehouse groaned open on squeaking tracks.
Kevin walked first, his face pale as chalk, his steps rigid and unnatural. Behind him, hidden beneath an oversized canvas jacket, Dominic walked with a suppressed pistol pressed firmly against the small of Kevin's back, shielded from view by the angle of their bodies.
Beside them, I walked with my hands held behind my back, pretending to be terrified, my eyes wide and downcast like a broken prisoner.
Inside, the warehouse smelled intensely of diesel fuel, damp concrete, and unburned gunpowder. Rows of shipping pallets stacked with industrial machinery formed towering canyons of rusted steel. At the far end of the open floor, beneath a bank of flickering yellow halogen lights, sat a makeshift conference area: a long folding table, four leather office chairs, and an open steel briefcase resting on the surface.
Sitting behind the table was an elderly man with impeccably combed white hair, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat over a three-piece charcoal suit.
Joseph Moretti.
Beside him stood three broad-shouldered men in tactical jackets, their hands resting loosely near their shoulder holsters.
"Kevin," Moretti called out, his voice dry and scratchy like dry leaves scraping over asphalt. "You're late. The arbitration hearing starts in forty-five minutes. Where is Rossi's confirmation?"
Kevin swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly. Dominic’s pistol pressed harder into his spine through the fabric of the coat.
"The... the hit was clean, Mr. Moretti," Kevin stammered, following the script Dominic had dictated in the car. "Falcone is dead in the penthouse. We brought the girl. She had his personal files in her bag. She knows the whole paper trail."
Moretti’s pale blue eyes flicked over to me. A thin, predatory smile curved his wrinkled lips.
"Ah," the old man said, adjusting his gold-rimmed reading glasses. "The observant waitress from Bellanova. You caused quite a disturbance last night, young lady. If you had simply served the Macallan and minded your own business, you might have lived to pass your bar exam."
"I have the offshore documents," I said, keeping my voice trembling just enough to sell the illusion. "I know about the Russian accounts in Saint Petersburg. I know about the Brooklyn lease fraud."
Moretti chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound that echoed off the high rafters.
"Knowledge without leverage is merely a death sentence, my dear. Bring the bag here, Kevin. Let's see what she was carrying."
Kevin took two stiff steps forward toward the folding table. Dominic matched him stride for stride, his head lowered beneath a dark watch cap, shadowing his features.
As they reached the edge of the light, Moretti’s eyes suddenly widened. He looked past Kevin's trembling shoulder, catching sight of the pale, distinctive scar along Dominic's jawline.
"You..." Moretti gasped, his voice cracking with sheer disbelief.
"Hello, Uncle Joseph," Dominic said.
In a split second, everything erupted into violence.
Dominic shove Kevin forward into the nearest bodyguard, drawing his pistol in a single, fluid motion. The suppressed weapon spat two rounds—*thwip, thwip*—catching the guard on the left in the shoulder and chest before he could clear his holster.
The guard on the right reached for his weapon, but I didn't hesitate. I lunged forward, grabbed the corner of the heavy folding table, and flipped it upward with all the desperate strength in my body.
The heavy steel briefcase, stacks of paper, and a hot thermos of black coffee crashed violently into Moretti and his remaining guard. The guard cursed, blinded by scalding liquid, stumbling backward onto the slick concrete.
Dominic fired twice more. The second guard dropped, groaning in agony as his weapon clattered across the floor.
Moretti scrambled backward on his hands and knees across the oily concrete, clutching a thick red leather ledger against his chest like an infant.
"Dominic! Please!" the old man screamed, his aristocratic dignity dissolving into pathetic terror. "I was loyal to your father for thirty years! Mateo forced my hand! He threatened my family!"
Dominic walked slowly toward the cowering consigliere, his pistol leveled at the old man's forehead. The smell of hot lead and spilled coffee hung thick in the cold morning air.
"My father built you from nothing, Moretti," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register of terrifying finality. "He gave you half of Brooklyn. He paid for your children's medical schools. And you sold his empire to Russian syndicates for twenty-two million dollars."
"I have the ledger!" Moretti sobbed, holding the book out like a shield. "Everything is inside! Every bribe, every shell company, every corrupt official on the Port Authority board! Take it! Just let me take the flight to Sicily! You will never see me again!"
Dominic stared down at the trembling old man, his finger tightening against the trigger.
The warehouse was dead silent save for Moretti's ragged breathing and the steady drip of coffee from the overturned table.
I stood five feet away, my heart pounding against my ribs, watching the man who had protected me all night prepare to become a murderer in front of my eyes.
"Dominic," I said softly.
He didn't turn his head. "He betrayed my father, Emma. In our world, there is only one penalty for this."
"If you kill him now, you prove Mateo Rossi right," I said, walking slowly until I stood at Dominic's side. "You prove that Falcone Logistics is just another violent gang of thugs fighting over scraps in an alley. But if you take that ledger, if you walk into 100 Church Street with me right now, you destroy Rossi legally, commercially, and permanently. You win this war without becoming what they are."
Dominic looked at me. His gray eyes were dark with ancient fury, but as he looked into my face—calm, resolute, and unyielding—the murderous tension in his arm slowly began to ease.
He lowered the weapon.
With one hand, he reached down and ripped the red leather ledger from Moretti’s grasp.
May you like
"Viktor is outside with two federal agents," Dominic told the shivering old man. "You're going to spend the rest of your retirement in a federal detention center in Lower Manhattan. Pray they give you a warm cell, Joseph. Because winter is coming."
================================================================================
