Chapter 7 - The Underboss’s Downfall
Don Moretti’s ancient eyes narrowed to razor slits as he stared at the glowing monitors, his jaw clenching with terrifying, lethal fury.
He looked from the forged shipping manifests down to Graham Vale, whose hands were shaking so violently he had to grip the table edge to stand.
The other eleven syndicate bosses began muttering in harsh, furious whispers, their loyalty to Graham evaporating like morning dew under a flamethrower.
“Is this true, Graham?” Don Moretti asked, his voice deathly soft, far more terrifying than a shout.
“Did you use my family’s name to shield your private offshore theft?”
“It’s a fabrication!” Graham screamed desperately, backing away toward the panoramic window overlooking the ocean.
“She forged those digital logs! She’s Virgil’s loyal pet—she would do anything to protect him!
Check the security logs from last night! Virgil breached syndicate protocols by compromising the executive staff!”
Virgil gave a slow, cold shake of his head, stepping around the long glass table until he stood six feet from his cornered underboss.
“The only thing compromised last night was your pathetic coup, Graham,” Virgil said, his voice dropping into pure, unyielding steel.
“You hired four hitmen to execute Miss Callaway in the basement vaults because you knew she had the forensic evidence to hang you in front of this council.”
Virgil raised his hand, and the boardroom doors opened once again, revealing two plainclothes federal agents and four uniformed state troopers.
At the front walked Special Agent Harris of the Federal Organized Crime Strike Force, holding an active federal arrest warrant stamped by a district judge.
Graham let out a sharp, choked gasp, looking around the room for allies, but every single mob captain turned their back on him in complete disgust.
“Graham Vale,” Agent Harris stated crisply, stepping forward with iron handcuffs drawn.
“You are under arrest for international wire fraud, interstate racketeering, and conspiracy to commit capital murder.
Step away from the window and place your hands behind your back.”
Graham lunged toward his briefcase on the table, attempting to reach for the small firearm he had concealed beneath his documents.
Before his fingers could even touch the leather handle, Virgil moved with blinding, explosive speed.
He caught Graham’s right wrist, twisting the joint with a sickening snap that sent the traitor crashing to his knees against the floorboards.
Graham screamed in agony, clutching his dislocated wrist as the state troopers swarmed him, pinning him to the carpet and securing the cuffs.
“You’re a dead man, Virgil!” Graham wheezed through tears of pain as he was hauled to his feet.
“The Moretti family won't forget this! You can't run this city with an accountant on your arm!”
Don Moretti stood up from his chair, leaning heavily on his gold-headed cane, looking at Graham with icy, absolute finality.
“The Moretti family respects men of honor who keep their agreements, Graham,” the old Don rasped.
“You are a thieving dog who stole from his own house. Take him away before I order him thrown into the harbor.”
As Graham was dragged out into the hallway, screaming curses that faded down the corridor, the boardroom descended into total, reverent silence.
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Virgil stood tall at the head of the table, his eyes sweeping across the remaining captains, who immediately lowered their heads in humble submission.
The throne of Atlantic City had not fallen; it had been cleansed with fire, and Virgil Dunore was more powerful than he had ever been.
