Chapter 7 - The Patriarch's Reckoning
Carmine Romano was seventy-one years old, with slicked-back white hair, a camel-hair overcoat, and eyes as sharp and predatory as a hawk’s. He paced the length of the grand reception room, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane. His six bodyguards stood in tight tactical formation near the grand entrance, their hands hovering near their tailored jackets.
When Alessandro entered the room alone, without weapons or an escort, Carmine slammed his cane against the floor tiles with a loud crack.
“Alessandro!” Carmine barked, his voice raspy from decades of cigars. “What is the meaning of this outrage? My daughter Isabella was supposed to be finalizing her wedding trusts. My son Vincent came to check on her when she missed our morning call, and now I hear gunshots were fired on your grounds! You have crossed a sacred line, boy. The Commission will strip you of your territory by sunset!”
Alessandro walked slowly to the bar at the corner of the room, poured himself a glass of water, and turned back to face the old man.
“Your son Vincent tried to breach my perimeter with seven armed mercenaries, Carmine,” Alessandro said casually. “He fired upon my guards. In any court of our world, that is considered a declaration of war. By all rights, I should have sent him back to you in six separate boxes.”
Carmine’s face flushed a deep, furious crimson. “You wouldn't dare! The Romano family controls the northern docks! You touch my blood, and New Jersey burns!”
“New Jersey won’t burn, Carmine,” Alessandro said, stepping forward until he was standing barely three feet from the older patriarch. “Because you don't control the docks anymore. In fact, you don't even control your own freedom.”
Alessandro reached into his pocket and pulled out a manila envelope, tossing it onto the glass table between them.
Carmine glared at the envelope, then reluctantly reached down and opened it. He pulled out the first three pages: high-resolution prints of the Cayman bank accounts, the cartel shipping manifests, and the scanned handwritten note detailing the hit-and-run murder of Roberto Mendes.
The color instantly drained from Carmine’s face. The arrogance, the fury, and the booming authority vanished, replaced by the hollow, suffocating terror of a trapped animal. His hands shook so violently that the papers fluttered against each other.
“Roberto...” Carmine stammered, his voice losing all its strength. “Where... where did you get this? This was destroyed. Vincent said he burned the office!”
“Your daughter stole it from a dead woman’s daughter two nights ago,” Alessandro revealed, his voice dripping with venom. “She wore the key around her neck like a trophy. She thought she was clever, Carmine. But she forgot that Rosa Mendes had a protector.”
Alessandro stepped closer, his towering frame casting a massive shadow over the broken old man. “Here is what is going to happen, Carmine. You are going to sign over every single dock lease, every commercial warehouse, and every logistics contract in Newark to a blind trust administered exclusively by my office. Every cent of profit from those docks for the next twenty years will be deposited into the Mendes Children’s Education and Welfare Foundation.”
Carmine swallowed hard, his breath rattling in his chest. “And my children? Vincent? Isabella?”
“Vincent will be put on a cargo freighter bound for South America tonight,” Alessandro dictated with ruthless clarity. “If he ever sets foot in the United States again, my men have orders to shoot him on sight. As for Isabella... she will be handed over to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, along with a full copy of this folder. She will stand trial for conspiracy to commit murder, corporate embezzlement, and the death of Roberto Mendes. She will spend the rest of her miserable youth in a federal penitentiary.”
“No!” Carmine pleaded, his eyes filling with desperate tears. “Not the feds, Alessandro! They will dismantle everything! My legacy—my family name!”
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“Your family name died the night you murdered an innocent man for trying to tell the truth,” Alessandro spat coldly. “Sign the papers, Carmine. Or I release the files to the feds and the Commission at the exact same time. Let us see who reaches you first: the FBI or the bosses you stole millions from.”
Carmine Romano’s knees buckled. He sank onto the sofa, dropped his silver cane, and picked up the gold pen resting on the table.
