Chapter 11 - THE RIPPLE EFFECT IN MOSCOW
The air in the subterranean Moscow bunker hung heavy with the smell of stale tobacco and cheap vodka, though the men sitting around the polished mahogany table were far too wealthy to drink anything less than vintage crystal-encrusted champagne. Yet, tonight, no one touched their glasses. At the head of the table sat General Pyotr Voronov, a man whose face looked as though it had been carved from frozen Siberian granite, bearing the jagged scar of a grenade blast from the Chechen wars. He stared down at the encrypted satellite tablet resting in front of him, watching the loop of a frozen video file: the lifeless eyes of Nikolai Rostov staring up from the checkerboard floor of a Broadway dressing room.
"He killed Nikolai," Voronov spoke, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattled the crystal decanters on the sideboard. "A seasoned commander of the Red Line, eliminated not by an elite hit squad or a rival syndicate boss, but by a theater costumer wearing an emerald dress."
Around the table, the Bratva captains exchanged uneasy glances. The loss of Rostov was a severe blow, but the implication was far more terrifying: Dante Moretti, the untouchable ghost of Manhattan, had found an Achilles heel that wasn't a weakness at all—it was a weapon.
"Moretti’s syndicate has grown arrogant," whispered Viktor Petrov, a sleek, tailored arms dealer whose fingers twitched nervously against his cuffs. "For years, they controlled the port entries, but with the elimination of Victor Vance and now Rostov, they believe New York belongs entirely to them. If we do not strike back, and strike decisively, our operations on the Eastern Seaboard will be dismantled piece by piece."
Voronov stood up slowly, towering over the table like a monument to cold-blooded violence. He buttoned his double-breasted charcoal suit with deliberate precision, his eyes locking onto Petrov with a terrifying intensity. "We are not going to send a squad of street soldiers to get slaughtered in a warehouse or a theater, Viktor. Moretti expects a war of guns and blood in the dark alleys of Manhattan. We are going to wage a war of shadows, finance, and absolute destruction. We will cut off the oxygen to his entire empire until Moretti and his little theater wife are begging us for a quick death."
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"How, General?" Petrov asked, leaning forward. "Moretti’s financial roots are deeply buried in Swiss accounts and legitimate real estate fronts."
"By targeting the foundation of his syndicate," Voronov replied, a cruel, thin smile breaking across his scarred face. "Not his money. His people. Every captain, every loyalist, every logistical anchor that holds Moretti’s world together. And we begin with the shipping docks that Clara Higgins so cleverly helped him secure. Send word to the inner circle in New York. The sleeping dogs are awake, and they are starving."
