Chapter 6 - The Fall of the Old King
Salvatore Viscari’s private compound in Lake Geneva was built like a stone medieval fortress.
Wrought-iron gates twenty feet high guarded the perimeter, patrolled by armed guards with Belgian Malinois attack dogs. Inside the sprawling library, seventy-two-year-old Salvatore sat in a burgundy leather wingback chair, nursing an expensive port while listening to the police scanner crackle on his desk.
The scanner was filled with frantic reports of gunfire at Pier 14.
“Where is the cutter?” Salvatore muttered, dialing his waterfront commander with trembling fingers. “Why hasn't Sloan confirmed the departure?”
The radio hissed, but no friendly voice responded.
Instead, the lights inside the mansion flickered once, twice, and died completely, plunging the grand estate into absolute, suffocating darkness.
Outside, the fierce barking of the attack dogs was cut short by the sharp pop of pneumatic tranquilizer darts.
A second later, the massive oak front doors of the mansion were blown inward by a controlled breaching charge. The explosion rattled the crystal chandeliers and sent a shockwave through the marble foyer.
Salvatore jumped up from his desk, reaching into his top drawer for his nickel-plated revolver.
Before his fingers could touch the grip, the library doors flew open.
Marcus Valente led a six-man assault team into the room, their weapon lights pinning Salvatore against his mahogany bookshelves in a blinding crossfire of green targeting lasers.
“Step back from the desk, old man,” Marcus barked.
Salvatore raised his trembling hands into the air, squinting through the painful glare of the tactical lights.
Vincent Romano stepped through the smoke, brushing a speck of plaster dust from his lapel. He walked over to the leather chair Salvatore had just occupied, sat down, and poured himself a measure of the port wine into a clean crystal glass.
“Good evening, Salvatore,” Vincent said, swirling the dark liquid in the glass. “You didn't wait for me at the southern docks this morning.”
Salvatore swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. “Vincent… this is madness. You breached sovereign territory! The Commission will order an all-out war for this!”
Vincent took a slow, deliberate sip of the wine, then set the glass down on the desk.
“There is no Commission to save you, Salvatore,” Vincent said calmly.
He slid an iPad across the desk.
On the screen was a live video feed of the Five Families council room in downtown Chicago. All four senior bosses sat around the table, watching the feed in grim, stony silence.
Beside the screen lay Peter Sloan’s video-recorded confession, detailing every transaction, every shell company transfer, and the exact instructions Salvatore had given to rig Vincent’s SUV.
“You broke the first law of the syndicate,” Vincent told his rival, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “You hired an outside assassin to murder a family head on domestic soil. Your assets have been frozen, your men have surrendered their arms, and your territory has been dissolved.”
Salvatore’s knees gave out. He slid down against the mahogany bookcase, looking older and more pathetic than he ever had in his long, ruthless life.
“What… what are you going to do with me?” Salvatore whispered, his voice trembling with the certainty of death.
Vincent stood up, turning toward the shattered library doors.
“You will spend the rest of your days in a federal penitentiary in Colorado, Salvatore,” Vincent said without looking back. “The evidence of your offshore money laundering and contract killings was delivered to the United States Attorney fifteen minutes ago.”
Salvatore blinked in disbelief. “Federal prison? You’re turning me over to the feds?”
Vincent paused at the doorway, his silhouette imposing against the tactical lights.
May you like
“A quick bullet in this room would make you a martyr to your followers,” Vincent said coldly. “Rotting in an eight-by-ten concrete cell while my organization runs your ports will remind everyone in this city what happens when you touch my family.”
He nodded to Marcus. “Hand him over to the marshals waiting at the gate.”
