Chapter 4 - The Takeover at Dawn
By midnight the following evening, the cold winds off Lake Michigan whipped through the abandoned iron foundry at the southern edge of the industrial canal. Dominic had summoned an emergency conclave of his eight top lieutenants.
Enzo was already there, pacing the damp concrete floor beneath flickering sodium lights, wearing a brand-new shearling coat, surrounded by four of his loyal street captains. He was agitated, spitting on the ground as he checked his gold Rolex every three minutes.
“What the hell are we doing out here in the freeze?” Enzo barked as the heavy iron doors groans open. “The old man is losing his mind. First he lets that little freak humiliate me at the gala, now he’s dragging us out to a rusted scrap heap in the middle of the night.”
From the shadows of the catwalk above, footsteps descended the rusted steel stairs.
Dominic stepped into the pool of yellowish light, looking worn and grim. But he was not walking alone.
To his right walked Elliot, dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray three-piece suit, his noise-canceling earpieces discreetly in place, carrying a ruggedized tablet. And beside Elliot walked Norah. She wore a tailored wool trench coat Elliot had had delivered to her hotel room that afternoon, her posture straight, her chin raised with fearless resolve.
Enzo burst out laughing, an ugly, grating sound that bounced off the corrugated steel walls.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Enzo jeered, stepping toward them. “You brought the kitchen maid to a sit-down, Dad? Has the boy lost his damn mind completely? Is she here to wipe his nose when the wind blows too hard?”
None of the other capos laughed. They had noticed the armed men flanking the upper catwalks—men who did not answer to Enzo.
“Shut your mouth, Enzo,” Dominic said, his voice flat and dead.
Enzo’s laughter died in his throat. He looked around the cavernous room, suddenly noticing the icy expressions on the faces of Valente and the other senior commanders.
“What is this?” Enzo demanded, his hand drifting instinctively toward his coat pocket.
“Take your hand off your piece,” Valente warned from the shadows, stepping forward with a twelve-gauge shotgun held casually across his chest. “Do it now, kid.”
Enzo froze, his fingers twitching against his lapel.
Elliot stepped forward into the center of the ring, tapping three keys on his tablet. High above, a massive industrial display screen flickered to life, illuminating the dark foundry with crisp, high-definition data.
“The Miami offshore account was frozen forty minutes ago, Enzo,” Elliot said, his voice clear, even, and devoid of theatrical malice. “Your wire transfer of one point eight million dollars to the Marcone cartel’s laundering hub in the Bahamas bounced at eleven-fifteen p.m.”
Enzo’s eyes darted frantically across the glowing screens displaying his secret routing numbers and encrypted messages. “That’s impossible! Those accounts are private! You don't know anything about finance, you little parasite!”
“You used your birthday as the administrative decryption salt,” Elliot replied calmly. “Your cognitive predictability is your greatest vulnerability. It took me seven minutes to dismantle your network.”
Enzo looked desperately at Dominic. “Dad, he’s lying! He’s trying to frame me because of what happened at the ballroom! He’s crazy, Dad, you know he belongs in an institution!”
Dominic stepped up to Enzo, his expression devoid of any paternal warmth. “I built this organization with my bare hands over forty years, Enzo. I buried two brothers so you could wear silk shirts and drive German sports cars. And you sold our docks to the Marcones behind my back for twenty cents on the dollar.”
Dominic delivered a single, brutal backhand that sent Enzo crashing onto the concrete, his lip splitting open against his gold teeth.
“You’re done,” Dominic growled. “You’re stripped of rank. You’re stripped of your accounts. By sunrise, you will be on a commercial flight to our compound in Palermo. If your feet ever touch American soil again, Valente will put you in a drum of lime.”
Enzo scrambled backward on his elbows, coughing blood, his arrogant veneer completely shattered. He glared past Dominic, his eyes locking onto Norah with murderous fury.
“You did this,” Enzo hissed, his voice cracking. “You broke waitress bitch... you ruined everything!”
He lunged from the floor, his hand diving into his boot for a backup snub-nosed revolver.
Before Enzo could clear leather, Elliot reacted. His movements were not the clumsy flailing Enzo had expected; they were fast, calibrated, and merciless. Elliot stepped inside Enzo’s reach, drove the heel of his palm upward into Enzo’s chin with concussive force, and trapped his brother’s wrist against his ribs with a precise joint lock.
The small revolver clattered uselessly onto the concrete.
Elliot leaned down, his face inches from his brother’s ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that only Enzo and Norah could hear.
May you like
“Four letters. Two syllables. Symmetrical,” Elliot whispered, his gray eyes flashing like polished steel. “Her name is Norah. And if you ever look at her again, I will erase every trace of you from every database on Earth.”
He released Enzo with a sharp shove. Two guards grabbed Enzo by the arms and dragged him kicking and screaming into the freezing night.
