Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at the Docks
We breached the rear perimeter of the Adirondack estate just as the basement thermite charges ignited, turning the underground prison into a raging, collapsing inferno. Salieri's hitmen, expecting an easy execution, were met with the full, unyielding fury of my veteran guard. Within twenty minutes, the mountain snow was stained crimson, and our armored convoys were racing south down the Taconic Parkway toward the city.
Isabella rested in the back of my reinforced SUV, her head in my lap, drifting between exhaustion and the overwhelming shock of freedom. I stroked her hair the entire ride, my gaze never leaving her face.
By 4:00 AM, we didn't head to the penthouse. We directed the convoy straight to the Brooklyn naval docks—Pier 42, the oldest holding yard belonging to the Moretti family.
In the center of an empty, salt-crusted warehouse, illuminated by the harsh beams of several idling trucks, sat two men tied to steel chairs: my brother Vincent, bruised and broken, and Don Salieri himself, dragged from his penthouse bed in his silk pajamas by Marco's specialized retrieval squad.
The heavy warehouse doors rolled shut with a deafening slam.
I stepped out of the SUV, carrying Isabella in my arms, wrapped in a thick wool coat. Beside us, Marco held Mia's hand. The little girl had woken up during the ride, but instead of fear, her eyes widened when she saw the woman in my arms.
""MOMMY!"" Mia screamed, breaking free from Marco's grip and sprinting across the concrete floor on her little legs.
""Mia! My baby!"" Isabella cried, struggling to stand. I set her down gently, supporting her weight with one arm as Mia collided with her legs, burying her small head into her mother's stomach. Isabella dropped to her knees, weeping openly, showering her daughter’s face with kisses, clutching the child so tightly it seemed nothing in this universe could ever separate them again.
The warehouse was dead silent save for the sobs of a reunited mother and child. Even my hardened soldiers turned their faces away, wiping tears from their weathered cheeks.
Then I turned toward the two men in the chairs.
Salieri was sweating profusely, his hands shaking against the zip-ties. ""Dominic... this is a misunderstanding! Vincent came to me! He told me Isabella had run away with another man! I only helped him secure the cabin to prevent a scandal for the Five Families!""
""You're lying, old man,"" Vincent hissed, spitting blood onto the ground, looking up at me with bitter venom. ""Salieri planned the whole takeover, Dom. He promised me the Moretti throne. He told me you were too soft, too distracted by a wife and child to lead a syndicate into the modern era.""
""Soft?"" I stepped forward, pulling a heavy silver revolver from my holster. ""You mistook my peace for weakness. You took my wife. You imprisoned my daughter. You stole four years of my life.""
""Dominic, wait!"" Salieri pleaded, wetting himself as the barrel leveled between his eyes. ""You can't kill a Don on the Council! The rules! The ancient laws!""
""I am the Council now,"" I said without emotion.
A single gunshot echoed through the cavernous warehouse, silencing Salieri forever.
I turned the smoking barrel toward Vincent. My younger brother. The boy I had taught to shoot, the boy I had pulled out of burning vehicles when our father died.
Vincent looked up, his lip curling into a sneer, knowing his fate was sealed. ""Go on, then. Be the monster you've always been.""
""I am not a monster to my family, Vincent,"" I said softly, lowering the gun. ""To my family, I am a protector. But you are no longer my family.""
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I turned to Marco. ""Untie him. Give him a coat and a single ticket to the deepest, coldest corner of the northern borders. Strip him of every cent, every name, every scrap of the Moretti bloodline. If he ever steps foot on American soil again, shoot him on sight like an abandoned cur.""
Death was too easy for a man who stole four years of life. Living as a nameless, penniless exile in the frozen wilderness, knowing the family he envied had survived and thrived, was the true prison.
