Chapter 8 - Into the Lion’s Den
The waterfront estate in Queens looked like a fortress disguised as a modern art museum. High concrete walls, tinted glass, and armed guards stationed every ten feet. Three black armored SUVs rolled through the wrought-iron gates precisely at 11:55 AM, tires crunching softly on the imported gravel driveway.
I sat in the back seat of the middle vehicle, flanked by Dominic and Dante. My fingers were laced tightly together in my lap, smoothing out the fabric of my dark gray formal service dress. Lily was safely tucked away in a secure safehouse in Manhattan under the guard of Dominic’s most trusted loyalist, but my heart was still hammering against my ribs.
The heavy oak doors of the grand foyer opened as we stepped out of the vehicle. Waiting inside was Vincent Silverio—a tall, silver-haired man with cold, predatory eyes and an expensive tailored suit that couldn't hide the holster bulging beneath his left arm.
“Dominic,” Vincent purred, spreading his arms wide with theatrical warmth. “I heard the tragic news about the birthday party. Such a shame when an estate becomes... unmanageable.”
Dominic didn't smile. He stepped past Vincent as if the man were nothing more than an unpleasant draft, his boots clicking loudly against the polished marble floor. “Save the theatrics, Vincent. We aren't in Chicago.”
Vincent’s smile didn't reach his eyes. He turned his gaze toward me, stepping closer until I could smell his expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of gunpowder. “And who is this? I don't recall seeing your usual security detail dragging housekeepers to our summits.”
“Clara manages my household,” Dominic said smoothly, stepping in between us just enough to create a barrier. “And she handles things your men are too incompetent to notice.”
Vincent chuckled, a dry, grating sound. “Well, Clara, you picked a bad family to work for. By sunset, the Moretti name will be nothing more than a footnote in New York history.”
The conference room at the back of the mansion was vast, dominated by a massive mahogany table surrounded by dozen syndicate capos from the Corsican and Silverio factions. As we took our seats at the far end, the tension in the room grew thick enough to choke on.
Vincent stood at the head of the table, resting his palms flat against the wood. “Gentlemen, we are here to restructure the North Atlantic shipping corridors. Since Dominic’s estate is currently dealing with... domestic tragedies... I propose a fifty-percent redistribution of his ports to the Corsican syndicate.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the capos. Dominic sat back in his chair, arms crossed, completely relaxed.
“And if I decline your generous offer?” Dominic asked softly.
Vincent smiled, pulling a heavy silver remote from his pocket. “Then my associates in Westchester will ensure your remaining staff joins your son before the clock strikes one.”
My breath hitched. He had a secondary team in Westchester.
Dominic didn't blink. Instead, he slowly reached into his suit jacket, pulled out his own phone, and placed it face-up on the table. He tapped the screen twice.
“You might want to check your feed in Westchester first, Vincent,” Dominic said, his voice ringing clearly across the silent room.
Vincent’s smile faltered. He pressed a button on his remote, activating the wall-mounted monitor behind him.
The screen flickered to life. Instead of a burning mansion, the live feed showed the grand security vault of Vincent’s own secret Brooklyn warehouse—where his entire cache of untraceable weapons, syndicate ledgers, and millions in cash was currently being surrounded by three tactical squads of Dominic’s private army.
And standing right in the center of the screen, directing the sweep with a tablet in her hand, was a senior tech specialist—wearing a headset and smiling directly at the camera.
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Vincent went completely pale, his hand trembling as he gripped the edge of the mahogany table. “You... you set a counter-trap.”
“You tried to poison a child, Vincent,” Dominic said, standing up slowly, his height and presence dominating the entire room. “And you underestimated a three-year-old girl.”
