Chapter 5 - The Fall of Salvatore Moretti
By 4:00 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the Palisades shrouded in a thick, ghostly river fog that swallowed the pine trees and muted the sound of the world below.
I stood on the slate patio outside my master study, a glass of neat bourbon in my hand, watching the fog roll across the black surface of the Hudson.
Viktor stepped out onto the patio, his heavy boots crunching softly against the wet slate. He handed me a secure tablet displaying a live video feed from a thermal drone hovering over a luxury brownstone on East 74th Street.
"Moretti tried to make a break for it ten minutes ago," Viktor reported, his face expressionless. "He had two private security guards in tow and a leather duffel bag stuffed with bearer bonds and passport forgeries."
On the screen, a thermal silhouette of a frantic, heavyset man could be seen shoving his way past two figures in dark tactical gear near the basement service exit of the brownstone.
"Did he make it to the car?" I asked, taking a slow sip of the bourbon.
"He didn't make it off the porch," Viktor replied dryly. "Marcus and his team were waiting in the shadows. We didn't fire a shot. Marcus just tripped him, zip-tied his wrists, and tossed him into the back of the van. He’s currently tied to a chair in the basement of our meatpacking facility on Eleventh Avenue."
I nodded slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl in my glass.
"Clean up the brownstone. Plant the financial files detailing his embezzlement from the syndicate in his desk drawer so the feds find them when they raid the place at sunrise. I want Moretti’s name scrubbed from the history of New York crime—not as a martyr, but as a pathetic embezzler who got what he deserved."
"And Moretti himself?" Viktor asked.
"Bring him to the warehouse," I said, my voice dropping into a register colder than the river fog. "I want to have a little chat about family."
An hour later, the black Maybach rolled through the rusted iron gates of our abandoned cold-storage warehouse in the Meatpacking District.
The cavernous interior smelled of damp concrete, rust, and the metallic tang of old fear. In the center of the room, beneath a single swinging industrial bulb, Salvatore Moretti sat tied to a wooden chair, his expensive silk suit ruined, his face bruised and swollen from where Marcus had introduced him to the pavement.
When I stepped out of the shadows, Moretti’s head snapped up. His eyes bulged behind his designer glasses, which were cracked down the center.
"Dante..." he wheezed, straining against the heavy zip-ties biting into his wrists. "Dante, please. We can make a deal. I have properties in Zurich, in Monaco—it’s yours, all of it! Just let me walk!"
I walked slowly around him, my leather shoes clicking against the wet concrete. I pulled out a heavy steel folding chair, set it two feet in front of him, and sat down, leaning forward with my forearms resting on my knees.
"You keep talking about walking, Salvatore," I said quietly. "Funny word for a man who’s about to be permanently grounded."
"It was just business!" Moretti cried, spittle flying from his lips. "The girl—she was just a waitress! She dropped a bottle of Scotch! How was I supposed to know she had a billionaire brother looking for her?!"
My hand moved faster than human reflex.
Before Moretti could finish his sentence, the heavy steel ring on my right index finger caught him across the jaw with the force of a hammer blow. His head snapped violently to the side, and a spray of blood and a broken molar hit the concrete.
Moretti groaned, slumping sideways in the chair, his breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps.
"She wasn't just a waitress," I said, standing up and leaning over his ear. "She was my blood. And you treated her like garbage."
May you like
I straightened my jacket, stepped back into the light, and looked at Marcus and Viktor.
"Feed him to the pigs in the New Jersey holding pens," I ordered, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. "And make sure nothing of him is left for the coroner to catalog."
