Chapter 9 - THE TARIFF OF BLOODThe Moretti compound in Staten Island was a sprawling, heavily guarded waterfront estate surrounded by iron gates and private docks. By 2:00 AM, it looked like a war zone.
Adrian Voss stood on the gravel driveway, his charcoal coat billowing in the cold river wind. Behind him, four black SUVs idled with their high beams cutting through the darkness, illuminating the burning wreckage of the Moretti shipping containers stacked along the pier.
Sal Moretti, an aging mob boss with slicked-back gray hair and a trembling cigar in his mouth, was dragged out onto the gravel by two of Adrian’s enforcers, throwing him violently to the ground at Adrian’s feet.
"Adrian! Wait—let's talk!" Sal wheezed, blood trickling from his split lip. "This was a misunderstanding! My boys went rogue—they weren't supposed to touch the girl!"
Adrian slowly walked forward. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't look angry. His face was a mask of terrifying, absolute calm. He crouched down until he was eye-level with the terrified older man.
"You broke the cardinal rule, Sal," Adrian whispered, the sound cutting through the roar of the burning containers behind them. "You brought violence to someone who had nothing to do with our business. You threatened a woman who saved my dog."
"I'll pay!" Sal cried, grabbing blindly at the hem of Adrian’s coat. "I'll give you the Jersey docks! I'll give you fifty percent of the import routes—"
"You don't own the Jersey docks anymore, Sal," Adrian interrupted softly. "As of midnight, my accountants own your entire portfolio. Your warehouses are being liquidated. Your men are scattering. And you..."
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Adrian stood up slowly, stepping back as Vance moved in with a pair of heavy steel zip-ties.
"...you are going to disappear to a very quiet island where nobody speaks English and nobody remembers your name."
