Chapter 4 - The Last Supper of the Syndicate
Down in the subterranean vault level, the air was cool and smelled of reinforced concrete and old wealth. But upstairs in the main courtyard, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of cordite and impending execution.
Victor Vance stood near the center of the illuminated fountain, flanked by four dozen loyal mercenaries dressed in black tactical gear. Surrounding them were the five Mafia dons of the East Coast, along with their respective bodyguards, all herded into the open courtyard at gunpoint.
The historic peace summit had been hijacked before it even began.
Damiano Moretti stood near the grand stone steps leading into the mansion, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored trousers. He looked entirely relaxed, as if he were waiting for a delivery rather than facing an armed rebellion led by his own second-in-command.
Victor stepped forward, a triumphant, sneer twisting his handsome features. He held a heavy-duty detonator control box in his left hand, its digital screen glowing a bright, steady green.
“It’s over, Damiano,” Victor called out, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “Your office is gone. Your network is compromised. And these four old men standing beside you signed their death warrants the moment they trusted your vision of a ‘united New York.’”
The dons muttered angrily among themselves, their bodyguards reaching instinctively for their holsters, only to have a dozen assault rifles cocked in unison by Victor’s men.
“You’re ambitious, Victor,” Damiano said calmly, his voice carrying clearly over the night air. “I’ll give you that. You built a nice little coalition behind my back. Bribed the guards, bought out some of the Genovese captains, and even recruited my chief legal counsel.”
Victor laughed, a sharp, arrogant sound. “Power vacuum, boss! You grew soft. You wanted to play legitimate businessman with real estate portfolios and charity foundations. The families need strength. They need blood and iron. And under my leadership, we’ll control the entire eastern seaboard within six months.”
“And Beatrice?” Damiano asked mildly. “Where is she?”
Victor’s smile faltered slightly. “She’s tying up loose ends upstairs. Why? Worried about your lawyer?”
“Not my lawyer,” Damiano replied. He checked his gold wristwatch. “Just wondering why she hasn't answered your radio frequency yet.”
Victor’s brow furrowed. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a secure radio transceiver, and thumbed the transmission button.
“Beatrice, status report. Come in.”
Static hissed through the speaker. Then, a low, modulated voice responded—not Beatrice’s, but Marcus’s flat, gravelly tone.
“Beatrice Vance is currently detained in the holding cells, Mr. Vance. Along with your assistant, Julian. The explosive device under the desk was successfully neutralized twenty minutes ago.”
The color drained instantly from Victor’s face. The remote detonator in his hand suddenly felt like a block of ice.
“That’s... that’s impossible,” Victor stammered, raising the control box and pressing the primary manual override button with frantic desperation.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing happened. The mansion behind Damiano remained fully lit, standing proud and intact against the starlit sky.
“You forgot one fundamental rule of running an empire, Victor,” Damiano said, his eyes turning to shards of dark obsidian as he took a slow, deliberate step down the stone stairs. “Never underestimate the people who clean your floors and watch your blind spots.”
Victor raised his pistol in a blind panic, leveling it straight at Damiano’s chest. “I’ll kill you right here! I’ll kill every last one of them!”
Before Victor’s finger could squeeze the trigger, a sharp crack echoed from the second-floor balcony above.
A single bullet zipped through the night air, striking the exact wrist of Victor’s gun hand. The pistol spun out of his grip, clattering onto the stone pavement as Victor screamed, clutching his shattered, bleeding wrist.
From the shadows of the upper balcony, a sniper’s laser sight painted a glowing red dot squarely between Victor’s eyes.
Around the courtyard, Victor’s mercenaries hesitated, looking back and forth between their wounded leader and the dozens of red laser dots now appearing on their chests from the surrounding rooftops. Damiano’s private elite guard had surrounded the courtyard completely.
“Drop your weapons,” Damiano commanded, his voice dropping into an absolute, chilling authority that brook no argument.
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One by one, heavy assault rifles clattered to the ground.
Victor fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding wrist, panting in shock and terror as the empire he had tried to steal collapsed around him in a matter of seconds.
