Chapter 5 - The Ambush at the Freight Doors
At 9:21 PM, the subterranean corridors of the St. Auberon were bathed in an eerie silence. The distant thrum of the hotel’s massive ventilation system sounded like the steady breathing of a sleeping beast.
Lorenzo Vella stepped off the private service elevator on the basement level, checking his gold watch once more. 9:22 PM. He pulled his silk pocket square from his breast pocket, wiping away a thin film of sweat from his forehead.
Behind him, the elevator doors opened again, and Allesio stepped out. He was alone, seemingly engrossed in dialing a number on his gold-trimmed cell phone.
"Senator?" Allesio spoke into the phone, his back turned to the long loading dock hallway. "Yes, thank you for returning my call. The gala is a resounding success..."
Lorenzo watched him from five feet away, a subtle, predatory smirk tugging at the corners of his aged mouth. Goodbye, boy, Lorenzo thought. You should have stayed in the charity wards.
Lorenzo casually took three paces backward, slipping into the alcove of the laundry chute where the concrete wall provided ballistic cover. He raised his right hand to his ear, clicking a small transmitter twice.
At 9:24 PM, the heavy steel security doors of the loading dock groaned.
Suddenly, the doors were kicked off their latches with an explosive crash. Six men in unmarked tactical gear, helmets, and assault vests flooded into the corridor, their carbines raised. Leading them was Detective Frank Miller, his badge hanging from a chain around his neck, his eyes wild with adrenaline.
"Romano! Drop to your knees! Tactical Narcotics! Drop or we fire!" Miller roared, though his rifle was already leveling squarely at Allesio’s chest. There was no intent to arrest; the safety was off, the trigger finger depressing.
Allesio didn't drop. He slowly lowered his cell phone, turned around, and looked Miller dead in the eye.
He was smiling.
"You're late, Frank," Allesio said smoothly.
From the shadowed recesses of the cross-corridors, from behind the industrial laundry bins, and from the overhead catwalks, twenty men in tailored charcoal suits materialized out of the dark. The unmistakable sound of twenty shotgun slides racking in unison echoed through the concrete chamber like thunderclaps.
Miller froze, his weapon wavering. "What the hell..."
"You forgot the cardinal rule of Westchester County, Detective," Allesio’s voice echoed off the concrete, utterly calm, terrifyingly cold. "You don't hunt on property you haven't swept."
Miller spun around frantically, looking toward Lorenzo’s hiding spot. "Lorenzo! What is this?!"
Lorenzo pressed himself into the corner, his face turning an ashen grey. "Allesio... wait! This is a misunderstanding! I brought them down here to protect you!"
"Is that why you have an unsigned transfer for eighty million dollars of harbor holdings sitting in your home safe, uncle?" Allesio asked softly, taking a slow step forward.
Dante stepped out from the shadows beside Miller, his massive fist driving into the detective's solar plexus with the force of a battering ram. Miller crumpled to his knees, vomiting blood onto the polished gray floor, his rifle clattering away.
The other tactical mercenaries instantly dropped their weapons, raising their hands toward the ceiling as red laser dots painted their foreheads from the catwalks.
Allesio walked past the groveling detective and stopped in front of Lorenzo.
"You held me at my father's grave," Allesio whispered, his eyes void of all warmth. "You told me the family came before everything."
"Allesio, please..." Lorenzo sobbed, falling to his knees, clutching at Allesio’s trousers. "It was Miller! He threatened my grandchildren! He forced me!"
Allesio reached down, plucked the green court folder from Lorenzo's breast pocket, and tore it in half without looking at it. He tossed the shreds onto the old man’s head.
"My father always said you were an accountant who dreamed of being a king," Allesio murmured. "Dante. Put Lorenzo on a freighter bound for our contacts in Palermo. He will spend the rest of his life tending lemon groves behind high walls, never speaking a word of English again. If he ever steps onto an airplane, end him."
"And Miller?" Dante asked, holding the gasping detective by the collar.
Allesio looked down at the disgraced badge. "Hand him over to the State Attorney General along with the Cayman offshore logs and the audio Norah recorded from the pantry. Let him spend twenty-five years in general population. Cops don't do well in state penitentiaries."
Allesio turned on his heel, adjusting his cuffs, and stepped back into the elevator.
May you like
"Now clean this mess up," he said as the steel doors closed. "I have a guest waiting on the twelfth floor."
---
