Chapter 4 - The 50-Million-Dollar Bounty
Anthony backed away from the table until his spine hit the panoramic glass window overlooking the rainy city below.
“Vincent, listen to me!” Anthony pleaded, sweat breaking out across his forehead and ruining his styled hair. “Salvatore forced my hand! He had leverage on the eastern shipping lanes! He promised me that nobody would get hurt—he just wanted to force a territorial renegotiation!”
“You arranged a brake failure on a steep decline road, Anthony,” Vincent said, stepping forward with deliberate, measured strides. “You didn't want a renegotiation. You wanted a funeral.”
Marcus stepped beside Vincent, drawing a black satellite phone from his pocket and dialing a pre-programmed frequency.
He hit the speaker toggle, setting the phone down on the wet marble table.
The call connected to the emergency secure channel used by the Five Families of the Midwest Syndicate. A chorus of senior voices answered, representing every major enterprise from Detroit to St. Louis.
Vincent leaned over the phone, his voice carrying the absolute weight of total supremacy.
“This is Vincent Romano,” he announced across the open line. “As of eleven-forty tonight, Salvatore Viscari and Peter Sloan are declared hostile to the peace of this territory. Furthermore, Anthony Romano has committed treason against his own house.”
A stunned silence settled over the corporate conference line.
“I am placing a fifty-million-dollar bounty on Salvatore Viscari’s waterfront network,” Vincent declared. “Dead or alive. Anyone who shelters him, funds him, or provides fuel to his vessels will be considered an enemy of the Romano family.”
He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Anthony’s terror-stricken face.
“And to the man who brings me Peter Sloan alive,” Vincent added, “I will grant full title and ten percent of the southern container terminals.”
The line exploded into rapid, urgent chatter as syndicate bosses scrambled to mobilize their men across four states.
A fifty-million-dollar bounty was unprecedented. It was enough capital to turn Salvatore’s closest lieutenants against him before sunrise.
Anthony fell to his knees against the glass, weeping openly. “Vincent… please. We’re family. Remember our fathers! Remember what we promised on the altar!”
Vincent looked down at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
“My father taught me that family is defined by loyalty, not DNA,” Vincent said.
He turned to Marcus. “Take him to the basement vault. Strip him of his phone, his rings, and his credentials. He will watch the broadcast when we dismantle Salvatore’s docks brick by brick.”
Two enforcers seized Anthony by the armpits, hauling him backward across the marble floor as he shrieked and begged for mercy. The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off his frantic cries.
Vincent turned back toward the table, where Sophie and Maria still stood.
The little girl had not flinched during the shouting. She stood with her small chin raised, holding the silver medallion tightly against her chest.
Vincent walked over and knelt down before her once more.
“You did very well, Sophie,” he said softly. “You spoke the truth when bad men tried to hide it.”
Sophie reached out, her small, warm fingers gently patting Vincent’s cheek. “You’re not going to get hurt now, right, Mr. Vincent?”
May you like
A genuine warmth, rare and deep, flickered across the mafia boss’s scarred features.
“No, little one,” Vincent promised, standing tall and buttoning his heavy overcoat. “Now, the bad men are the ones who need to be afraid.”
