Chapter 9 - The Reckoning
Total chaos erupted inside the conference room. Three of Vincent’s capos instantly reached for their shoulder holsters, but Dante and the Moretti security detail were faster. Deafening gunshots shattered the priceless chandeliers overhead as glass rained down like diamonds across the polished marble floor.
Vincent lunged backward toward a concealed panic door behind the main screen, his face twisted in panic.
“Don't let him reach the terminal!” I shouted, adrenaline overriding every instinct of self-preservation.
I didn't think. I grabbed a heavy silver water pitcher from the conference table and hurled it across the room with all my strength. It caught Vincent square behind the knee, sending him crashing hard to the floor with a agonized yell.
Before he could pull his weapon, Dominic’s boot came down heavily on his wrist, pinning his hand to the floor with a sickening crunch of bone.
Vincent screamed, thrashing against the marble, looking up at Dominic with pure terror in his eyes. “You can’t do this! The Commission will—!”
“The Commission was dissolved the moment you broke the blood oath against children,” Dominic interrupted, his voice devoid of any human warmth. He pulled a heavy silver signet ring off his own pinky finger—the very ring bearing the Moretti crest—and dropped it onto the floor beside Vincent’s bleeding hand. “You wanted my empire, Vincent. Now you can have the dirt beneath it.”
Dante moved in swiftly, dragging Vincent toward the exit by his collar while the remaining capos dropped their weapons, hands raised in absolute surrender as Dominic’s men secured the room.
Within minutes, the sprawling Queens estate was locked down. The syndicate leaders who had conspired with the Corsicans were zip-tied and lined up against the courtyard wall, waiting for federal transport—or worse, the silent vans that never appeared on public registries.
Dominic stood near the french doors, looking out over the manicured gardens as the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gold.
He turned around, wiping a speck of dust from his sleeve, and looked at me. My hands were still shaking slightly, the adrenaline finally beginning to wear off, leaving a hollow, aching exhaustion in my bones.
“You threw a silver pitcher like a professional quarterback,” Dominic remarked, a faint, rare hint of amusement touching the corners of his mouth.
“My father used to take me to baseball games in Chicago,” I replied softly, leaning against the back of a leather chair. “I had a good coach.”
Dominic walked over, stopping a few feet away. The cold, ruthless mafia boss was gone; in his place stood a father who owed his son’s life to a little girl with white sneakers.
“Your father’s case files,” Dominic said quietly. “The ones the DOJ buried after his death. I have them in my private vault in Zurich. Every single name of the corrupt officials who sold him out to the Silverios.”
My breath caught. Tears finally broke free, hot and silent, tracking down my cheeks. “Why didn't you give them to me six years ago?”
“Because six years ago, you were broken and looking for a suicide mission,” Dominic said, his voice steady and grounding. “Today, you are a survivor. And you proved you have more loyalty than an army of soldiers.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, ornate key stamped with the Moretti crest.
“The penthouse is yours for as long as you want it, Clara. And your daughter will never have to worry about a single thing for the rest of her life.”
May you like
I looked at the key, then up into his gray eyes. “And what about you, Dominic?”
“I have a city to clean,” he said simply, turning toward the door where Dante waited with the vehicle. “Are you coming back to Westchester, or do you have packing to finish?”
