Chapter 12 - The Ghost of Boston
The private airstrip in Westchester County was shrouded in a thick, freezing fog when the private jet bearing the Moretti family crest touched down on the tarmac. Two sleek black limousines idled near the hangar, their headlights cutting through the gray mist like the eyes of predators waiting in the dark.
Inside the primary vehicle, Don Vincent Moretti—an aging, silver-haired patriarch with cold, dead eyes—adjusted his cashmere scarf. Across from him sat his primary enforcer, a scarred brute named Marco who hadn't spoken a single word since they left Boston.
“Nico was an idiot,” Vincent rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “He let a civilian girl get the better of him over a petty gambling debt. But he is still my blood. And the Casaro family owes a blood debt for treating him like an animal.”
“Leo is getting old,” Marco replied flatly, his hand resting casually on the butt of a silenced pistol beneath his coat. “And rumor has it, he’s surrendered half his operational control to the girl. She’s soft, Don Moretti. She grew up in a mechanic’s garage. She won't survive a real syndicate war.”
Vincent didn't answer. He stared out the frosted window as the car rolled toward the main gate of the Casaro estate. He had underestimated many people in his long, brutal career, and every single one of them was currently buried beneath six feet of concrete. He wasn't going to make that mistake with Myra.
When the limousines pulled up to the grand iron gates of the Brooklyn compound, they expected guards to scramble or gates to bar their entry. Instead, the heavy wrought-iron doors swung open smoothly, inviting them in as if they were expected guests arriving for dinner.
Vincent’s brow furrowed in suspicion. He signaled Marco to ready his weapon.
As the cars parked in the courtyard, the doors opened to reveal an entirely empty courtyard. No guards, no valets, no welcoming committee. Just the cold wind howling off the river and the massive mahogany double doors of the mansion standing wide open.
Vincent stepped out of the limousine, his heavy wool coat sweeping around his ankles. He took three steps toward the entrance before the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him with a final, echoing sound.
From the shadows of the grand foyer, a single voice rang out—cool, level, and entirely devoid of fear.
“You’re trespassing, Don Moretti.”
Vincent turned sharply. Descending the grand marble staircase wasn't Leo Casaro. It was Myra.
She wore a tailored obsidian suit that caught the amber light of the chandelier, her hair pulled back in its signature razor-sharp braid. In her right hand, she casually spun a heavy silver signet ring—Nico’s ring, stripped from his finger the night he was dethroned.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he took in the young woman standing before him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, little girl, inviting a wolf into your den.”
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Myra stopped halfway down the stairs, her lips curving into a cold, humorless smile.
“You have it backward, Vincent,” she said softly. “You didn't walk into a den. You walked into a slaughterhouse. And you forgot to check if the exit doors were locked.”
