Chapter 9 - THE COMMISSION FALLSThe rain had returned by the time Dominic’s black Lincoln pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the Caruso estate in Long Island.
The front lawn was littered with the spent brass casings of a firefight that had ended just minutes before his arrival. Two unmarked federal SUVs were parked sideways across the circular driveway, their doors bullet-riddled and abandoned.
Dominic stepped out into the cold drizzle, his wool coat snapping in the wind. He walked up the marble steps, pushing open the grand double doors without hesitation.
In the enormous living room where Lily had stood that very morning in her moon-print pajamas, three men sat waiting for him.
They weren't federal agents. They were the regional capos of the New York Commission—the old guard who thought Dominic had grown too soft, too distracted by legitimate real estate and quiet grief.
At the center stood Salvatore Maroni, an aging, silver-haired boss who had ruled Brooklyn back when Dominic was still a street enforcer.
"It's over, Dominic," Maroni said, swirling a glass of neat whiskey as he stood by the grand fireplace. "Jack Mason laid out the entire operation for us before he woke up with a headache. The federal indictments are signed. Your assets are frozen. The commission is taking over."
Dominic didn't draw his gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply walked across the marble floor, his footsteps echoing like hammer blows in the cavernous room, until he stood right in front of Maroni.
"Jack lied to you," Dominic said quietly.
Maroni scoffed. "The man ran your books for a decade, Dom. He showed us every offshore account, every bribe ledger, every shell company."
Dominic reached inside his coat pocket, pulled out the manila envelope from Father Thomas, and tossed it onto the coffee table right in front of Maroni.
"Jack didn't show you the real books," Dominic said, his eyes locking onto Maroni's suddenly nervous expression. "He showed you what I let him see to keep him comfortable. But more importantly... Jack forgot one crucial detail."
"What's that?" Maroni muttered, leaning down to glance at the documents.
"Clara Bennett is alive," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a whisper that sounded like a death sentence. "And she spent five years documenting every single transaction Jack and your inner circle processed through the Brooklyn docks."
Maroni’s face drained of color. The whiskey glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the marble hearth, amber liquid pooling like blood across the white stone.
Before Maroni could reach for the revolver tucked beneath his jacket, the double doors behind the capos swung wide open.
Marcus and twenty heavily armed Caruso enforcers filled every exit, their assault rifles raised and locked.
May you like
"Drop your weapons," Dominic commanded, his voice echoing with absolute, unquestioned authority.
None of them moved. None of them dared to breathe.
