Chapter 8 - Night of the Wolves
Roman shoved Elias down the narrow stairs onto the main deck, forcing him onto his knees on the slick, snow-covered steel. The ship's engines sputtered and died, the starboard propeller fouled by tangled mooring cables. The Valentina drifted to a halt, pinned hard against the concrete seawall of Pier Eleven.
Don Antonio Valente walked up the gangway, his silver hair dusted with snow, his face an impenetrable mask of weathered authority. Serena walked beside him, flanked by Marcus and a dozen Valente enforcers.
When Antonio saw Elias shivering on his knees, his lips curled into an expression of profound disgust.
""Twelve years, Elias,"" Antonio said, his gravelly voice carrying clearly over the wind. ""Twelve years I carried the blame for Vincent’s murder. Twelve years my sons slept with shotguns beside their beds because your cousin thought we blew up his father.""
""Antonio... please,"" Elias begged, raising his bound hands. ""It was business. You understand business. Vincent was going soft. He was going to ruin us all.""
Antonio didn't even look at him. He turned to Roman. ""Your father was my enemy, Roman. But he was an honorable man. We fought over shipping rights and warehouse contracts like men. We never put bombs under each other's family sedans. What do you want to do with this vermin?""
Roman looked at Serena. Her eyes were steady, showing no desire for theatrical cruelty—only the cold finality of justice.
""He doesn't get a grave with the Bellucci name,"" Roman said flatly. ""And he doesn't get to die in the dark where people can pretend he was a martyr.""
Roman reached into his pocket and pulled out the encrypted microSD card that Tomas Marchetti had hidden inside Ellie’s doll. He handed it to Marcus.
""Upload everything,"" Roman commanded. ""Every recording, every transaction, every offshore routing number. Send copies to the Boston Globe, the Department of Justice, and the state attorney general’s personal inbox. Let the entire world see what Elias Bellucci truly was.""
Elias’s eyes dilated with sheer panic. ""No! Roman, you can't! That destroys our political connections! That ruins our family's influence in the state!""
""Our family's influence was built on a foundation of rot,"" Roman replied coldly. ""It ends tonight.""
Sirens began to wail in the far distance, coming from the direction of the Tobin Bridge and the North End. Dozens of flashing blue and red lights illuminated the snow-covered skyline as Massachusetts State Police cruisers and federal tactical vans raced toward the marine terminal.
""They're coming for you, Elias,"" Serena said, stepping forward. ""Tomas Marchetti’s murder has been reopened as a federal homicide. You will spend the rest of your miserable life in a maximum-security cage, listening to the echo of your own lies.""
Elias looked at the approaching sirens, then at Roman’s emotionless face, and finally at the black waters of the harbor. A desperate, feral madness overtook him.
""I won't rot in a cage!"" Elias screamed.
He scrambled to his feet, lunged toward the ship’s low railing, and vaulted himself over the side into the icy, churning depths of Massachusetts Bay.
""Boss!"" Marcus raised his rifle, aiming into the black water.
""Hold your fire,"" Roman ordered, raising a hand.
They stood at the railing and watched. The temperature of the water was twenty-eight degrees, thick with slush and swift harbor currents. Elias surfaced once, gasping and thrashing violently against the crushing undertow, screaming Roman’s name into the freezing darkness.
Within thirty seconds, the current pulled him beneath the frozen surface of the shipping channel. He did not surface again.
Roman turned his back on the water. The sirens were pulling into the terminal gates, high-intensity searchlights cutting through the blizzard.
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Antonio Valente placed a heavy hand on Roman’s shoulder. ""The war is over, son.""
Roman nodded slowly, the tension that had gripped his chest for twelve long years finally releasing like a snapped wire. ""Yes, Don Antonio. It’s over.""
