Chapter 14 - the trial by fire
Marcus brought the gun up, aiming directly between Dominic’s eyes.
"Die, brother!" Marcus screamed.
Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't dive for cover.
With blinding, savage precision, Dominic’s left hand struck upward, knocking the gun’s barrel toward the ceiling just as the weapon discharged with a deafening BANG.
The bullet shattered a massive crystal chandelier overhead, sending glass raining down across the mahogany table.
In the same continuous motion, Dominic stepped inside Marcus’s guard and drove a thunderous right hook directly into his jaw.
Marcus flew sideways, crashing across the heavy table, scattering dossiers, water pitchers, and glasses. The chrome pistol clattered against the carpet.
Marcus scrambled across the wood, coughing blood, desperate to reach the door. "Help me! I promised you the ports!"
None of the dons moved a finger. The bodyguards stood frozen, weapons pointed strictly at the floor. In the underworld, there was no crime worse than a fake claiming a stolen crown.
Dominic grabbed Marcus by the collar of his expensive Brioni suit, hauling him off the table and slamming him hard against the reinforced plaster wall.
"You tried to murder my wife," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a deadly, vibrating hum. "You tried to steal my daughter. You turned my friends into traitors."
Marcus hung from Dominic’s grip, his feet barely touching the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his split lip. Fear finally overtook his arrogance.
"Dominic... please," Marcus wheezed, his hands clawing at Dominic’s iron wrists. "We grew up together. Father raised us as brothers. Have mercy."
"My father gave you a home," Dominic said coldly. "And you gave him poison."
Dominic didn't snap his neck. He didn't put a bullet in his head. That was too clean. Too easy.
Dominic dragged Marcus across the room and hurled him to the feet of Don Lucchese and the gathered Commission elders.
"Take him," Dominic commanded. "Strip every account registered under the Moretti trust. Seize every asset he holds in Boston, New York, and Zurich. And turn him over to the federal port authorities for the murder of Carter Hayes."
Lucchese nodded slowly, respect etched into every line of his weathered face. "It will be done, Don Valerio. The city is yours. As it always was."
Dominic turned on his heel and walked out of the ballroom, his trench coat billowing behind him, leaving the shattered usurper groveling on the floor behind him.
Season one of the war was won. His name was cleared. His empire was restored. His throne was undisputed.
Dominic stepped out onto Fifth Avenue into the crisp autumn morning, pulling out his satellite phone to call the safehouse.
"Frank," Dominic said into the receiver. "It’s over. Marcus is finished. Prepare the town car. I'm coming home to Elena and Clara."
There was a long, terrifying pause on the other end of the line.
Then, a trembling, panicked voice answered—not Frank.
It was Dr. Lang.
"Mr. Valerio... oh God, Mr. Valerio..."
Dominic’s blood ran cold. "Doctor? What happened? Where is Frank?"
"They ambushed the safehouse ten minutes ago," Dr. Lang sobbed through the phone. "Frank is down... they took Elena and the girl."
"Who took them?" Dominic roared, the concrete sidewalk beneath his boots feeling suddenly weightless. "Marcus was at the Plaza!"
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"It wasn't Marcus," Dr. Lang whispered, his voice trembling with sheer, unadulterated terror. "It was a woman, Mr. Valerio. She had your father’s personal ring on her finger. And she left a message for you."
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