Chapter 9 - The UltimatumThe hangar was dead silent save for the drumming of the rain against the corrugated metal roof and the whining turbine of the Gulfstream idling twenty yards away. Sal Maroni stared down the barrel of Vivien’s Walther, the cold steel pressing into the skin between his eyebrows.
His four bodyguards stood frozen, laser dots dancing like crimson fireflies across their chests.
"You think..." Maroni swallowed hard, his voice tight and strained. "You think killing me stops the Outfit? My captains will level this entire city before morning. Every warehouse, every dock, every safehouse you own will go up in smoke."
Edmund didn't flinch. He stepped closer, resting one hand casually on Vivien’s shoulder—not to pull her back, but to steady her aim.
"Your captains won't do a damn thing, Sal," Edmund said, his voice low and conversational. "Because while you flew out here to play mob boss, my accountant sent a synchronized data dump to every federal prosecutor and rival syndicate boss from here to the Mississippi."
Maroni’s eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"
"Ledger 414 wasn't just Vance's insurance policy," Vivien added, her finger resting lightly against the trigger of the pistol. "It contained the offshore routing numbers for every laundering front the Chicago Outfit operates. By the time your plane touches down back home, the FBI will have seized your bank accounts, and your own capos will be fighting over the scraps of your empty empire."
Maroni’s face twisted in rage and pure, unadulterated terror. "You bluffing bitch—"
Edmund’s hand rose, catching Maroni by the throat and slamming him back against the cold aluminum fuselage of the jet with a deafening thud.
"It's not a bluff," Edmund hissed, his face inches from Maroni’s, his pale eyes burning with a terrifying fury. "You tried to kill my wife during our first dance. You broke the rules of the table. And for that, I'm not just taking your territory—I'm erasing your name from the ledger entirely."
Edmund stepped back, nodding once to Tommy.
The laser dots vanished from the guards' chests, replaced instantly by the deafening crack of suppressed sniper fire. All four Chicago guards dropped to the concrete in unison, their bodies slumping against the wet floor like discarded coats.
Maroni let out a choked gasp, sliding down the side of the aircraft until he was kneeling in the puddle of rainwater at Edmund’s feet.
"Please..." Maroni whimpered, clutching at Edmund’s trousers. "Don't... what do you want?"
Edmund looked down at him with absolute contempt, then turned his gaze to Vivien.
"What do you think, wife?" Edmund asked quietly. "Should we let him fly back to Chicago with a message?"
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Vivien lowered her pistol, sliding it smoothly back into her shoulder holster. She adjusted the belt of her trench coat, looking down at the broken man on the pavement as if he were nothing more than a stain on her shoe.
"Let him go back," Vivien said, a cold, brilliant smile touching her lips. "Tell his capos that the Costa empire isn't for sale. And if anyone else tries to interrupt our wedding dance, we won't just stop at the sniper."
