Chapter 17 - The Face in the Smoke
The battle raged through the corridors of Hale Manor for twenty grueling minutes—a brutal, room-by-room clearance operation that left the ancestral home looking like a combat zone in a civil war.
Finally, the gunfire began to taper off, replaced by the crackle of burning upholstery and the hiss of broken water pipes flooding the ground floor.
I walked slowly through the haze of gray smoke toward the grand foyer, stepping over bodies in black tactical gear. My suit was torn, my left shoulder burned by a close-range round, and my knuckles were raw and bloody.
At the center of the ruined foyer stood a tall, silver-haired man in an immaculate gray tailored suit that remained untouched by the chaos. He held a golden-headed cane in one hand and a cigar between his teeth.
Don Salvatore Morosco.
"You've certainly let the place go, Julian," Morosco said, exhaling a thin cloud of blue smoke into the smoky air. "I remember when this marble used to shine."
"You're a long way from Little Italy, Salvatore," I said, leveling my weapon directly at his chest. "And you brought a lot of men to their funerals."
Morosco smiled, unbothered by the gun barrel pointed at his heart. "My men are investments, Julian. And right now, my investment is about collecting on the debt your brother left behind. Vincent signed over thirty percent of your shipping lanes to us before you put him in that Vladivostok hold. Legally, the port is mine."
May you like
"Vincent didn't own the ports," I said coldly. "I did."
"True," Morosco shrugged. "Which is why I'm here to negotiate. You hand over the East Coast shipping rights, and I walk out of here and leave you, your housekeeper, and your little girl in peace. Refuse, and my second wave—the one waiting outside the gates—burns this entire estate to the ground with everyone inside."
