Chapter 6 - Confessions in the DarkArthur Bellini was a man who had built an empire on intimidation, bribes, and corporate executions. But looking into the cold, dead eyes of Dominic Moretti, the aging mafia boss realized he was staring at his own executioner.
Arthur swallowed hard, forcing a tight, trembling smile onto his face as he spread his hands wide in a gesture of false hospitality.
“Dominic, my boy! Thank God,” Arthur said, taking a step forward as if to embrace him. “We heard the hospital was attacked by rogue syndicate rivals! We were just organizing a rescue team to get you out of there! What are you doing with this... this nurse?”
Dominic stopped walking ten feet away. He didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice.
“Arthur,” Dominic said quietly, “save the performance for the federal grand jury. Or better yet, save it for hell.”
Arthur’s false smile vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, hardened scowl. He let his arms drop to his sides, his hand hovering inches from the revolver tucked into his belt.
“You think you can walk in here and threaten me in my own home, Moretti?” Arthur sneered, his voice rising in dangerous pitch. “You’re bleeding through your bandages right now! One good punch and you’ll collapse on this floor. Your empire is divided, your warehouse is ashes, and your board of directors already voted to strip your voting shares fifty minutes ago!”
“Did they?” Dominic asked mildly, a dark, dangerous smirk playing at the corner of his bruised lips. He tilted his head toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind Arthur.
Across the river, the sprawling shipping docks and container yards that made up the Bellini family’s primary source of revenue suddenly lit up with a series of synchronized, blinding flashes of light.
Boom.
A dull, concussive roar rattled the glass of the penthouse suite.
Arthur whipped around, his eyes widening in absolute horror as he watched three of his largest container ships—docked neatly in the harbor—erupt into massive, towering columns of orange flame and black smoke.
“No,” Arthur breathed, his voice cracking. “No, no, no! That’s thirty million dollars in contraband! That’s my entire distribution network!”
“Fifty million,” Dominic corrected smoothly, stepping closer. “And it’s not your distribution network anymore, Arthur. It’s a message.”
Vanessa shrieked, clutching the front of her pristine white wedding gown as if the fire outside was burning her own skin. She lunged forward, her face twisted in a mask of hysterical rage.
“You destroyed our docks! You ruined everything!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Dominic, then turning her venomous glare toward Grace. “And it’s because of her! That wretched, filthy little nurse! Why are you protecting a nobody?! What does she even have that I don't?!”
Dominic finally turned his head to look at Vanessa.
His expression was so devoid of human emotion that Vanessa instinctively recoiled, taking two stumbling steps backward into the glass coffee table.
“Loyalty, Vanessa,” Dominic said softly, the words dropping like lead weights into the room. “Something you wouldn't recognize even if it was sewn into your expensive dresses.”
Grace stood a few paces behind Dominic, holding little Leo's hand tightly. The boy stared wide-eyed at the burning ships across the river, his small fingers wrapped around his black cross. Grace looked at Dominic's broad, scarred back—a man standing upright purely on sheer willpower and vengeance—and felt a strange, terrifying warmth bloom in her chest.
Arthur Bellini’s hand finally snapped toward his waistband, his fingers closing around the grip of his revolver.
“You arrogant son of a bitch,” Arthur snarled, drawing the weapon and leveling it straight at Dominic’s chest. “I should have put a bullet in your brain myself!”
Before Arthur could even disengage the safety, the heavy glass doors of the penthouse burst open behind him.
Detective Marcus Vance stepped into the room, flanked by four federal marshals with assault rifles raised and locked on Arthur Bellini.
“Drop the weapon, Arthur,” Vance said, his voice cutting through the smoky air like a whip. “You’re under arrest for conspiracy, industrial arson, and attempted murder of a federal witness.”
Arthur froze, the gun trembling in his hand. He looked from Vance to the federal agents, and finally back to Dominic Moretti, who hadn't even flinched at the barrel of the gun.
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“You called the feds?” Arthur whispered in disbelief.
“I didn't call them,” Dominic replied coldly, watching as two federal marshals rushed forward, tackling Arthur to the floor and kicking his revolver across the marble. “I gave them the ledger you forgot to shred in your private office.”
