Chapter 10 - Confessions in the Cellar
The abandoned naval warehouse across the river in Algiers smelled of low-tide
mud, rusted corrugated iron, and rotting timber.
Don Vance of the Atlanta syndicate sat in a leather folding chair in the center
of the vast, echoing concrete floor, flanked by eight heavily armed personal
guards.
Beside him stood Special Agent Marcus Cole, dressed in a sharp FBI trench coat,
nervously checking his Rolex every thirty seconds.
Tied to a rusted support pillar in the shadows behind them was Bianca.
Her face was swollen, her designer dress shredded, her spirit entirely broken.
The heavy steel roll-up door of the warehouse rattled upward with a deafening
screech of industrial chains.
The morning sun flooded the concrete interior.
Walking through the blinding light was Lorenzo Moretti.
He walked alone, wearing his charcoal suit, his hands resting casually in his
trouser pockets. Behind him, flanked by thirty heavily armed Moretti soldiers
and the visiting capos of New York, stood Matteo... and beside Matteo stood me,
with the Sig Sauer holstered securely beneath my jacket.
Don Vance stood up from his chair, a smug, arrogant grin spreading across his
leathery face.
“Lorenzo,” Vance called out, his southern drawl echoing off the steel girders.
“We were worried about you, boy. The storm was vicious out in the parish. Did
you bring the Swiss authorization codes from your dear departed mother?”
Lorenzo stopped ten paces away.
He didn't speak. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the digital audio
recorder from Donna Maria’s strongbox, and pressed play.
Vance’s own voice boomed across the warehouse through the high-powered speaker:
“...Once Maria is in the ground, Lorenzo will be blinded by grief. We hit them
during the wake. Thirty minutes of gunfire, and the entire Gulf Coast belongs to
us...”
Don Vance’s smug smile vanished instantly. His leathery skin turned the color of
damp ash.
Agent Marcus Cole took two frantic steps backward, his hand darting toward his
federal service weapon beneath his coat.
“Hold it right there, Cole,” a booming voice shouted from the overhead catwalks.
From the steel rafters above, twenty federal tactical agents in olive-drab body
armor emerged, their sniper rifles painted with red laser sights locked directly
onto Cole’s chest and Vance’s guards.
Leading the federal tactical team was Deputy Director Reynolds of the DOJ’s
Internal Affairs division.
“Marcus Cole,” Reynolds announced through a megaphone. “You are under arrest for
treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and organized racketeering. Drop your
weapon or you will be neutralized where you stand.”
Cole’s knees gave out. He fell to the concrete floor, his service pistol
clattering away from his trembling fingers.
Don Vance looked around frantically at the laser sights painting his men’s
chests. His guards dropped their carbines onto the concrete in unison, raising
their hands above their heads.
Lorenzo walked slowly up to Don Vance.
The Atlanta boss was shaking uncontrollably, his southern bravado completely
shattered.
“Lorenzo... listen to me,” Vance stammered, raising his trembling hands. “We can
make a deal! The Atlanta ports... fifty percent of all shipping... I’ll sign
over the territory!”
Lorenzo looked down at him with the cold, detached gaze of an executioner.
“My mother survived twenty-one days in an iron cistern, Vance,” Lorenzo
whispered. “She drank rainwater and ate scraps dropped by an old dog.”
Lorenzo reached out and gripped Vance by the lapels of his expensive coat,
pulling him forward until their noses almost touched.
“You don't have enough blood in your entire family to pay for one hour of her
suffering.”
Lorenzo shoved him backward. Matteo stepped forward instantly, clamping heavy
steel handcuffs around Vance’s wrists.
“Take them to the federal marshals,” Lorenzo commanded Reynolds above. “Give
them the full ledger. Let them rot in a supermax facility until their bones turn
to dust.”
As the agents hauled the traitors away, Bianca remained chained to the pillar,
weeping hysterically.
“Lorenzo! What about me?! I’m your cousin! You can’t leave me to the feds!”
Lorenzo stopped beside her. He looked down at her with pure, unadulterated pity.
“The feds aren't taking you, Bianca,” Lorenzo said softly.
Bianca’s eyes lit up with a faint, pathetic glimmer of hope. “You’re letting me
go?”
“No,” Lorenzo replied. “You are being transferred to a convent in northern
Alaska under the perpetual supervision of our family’s private order. You will
spend the rest of your natural life scrubbing stone floors in forty-below
weather, praying for a forgiveness you will never receive.”
Bianca screamed in horror as two Moretti guards unchained her and dragged her
toward the waiting transport vans.
The warehouse fell silent, save for the gentle lapping of the Mississippi River
against the pilings outside.
Lorenzo turned around and walked toward me.
In the golden morning light streaming through the open doors, the darkness that
had haunted him for three weeks was completely gone.
He stopped in front of me, took my hand in his, and smiled—a genuine,
May you like
breathtaking smile that transformed his entire face.
“Let’s go home, Evelyn,” Lorenzo said.
