Chapter 7 - The Final Summit
The neutral ground chosen for the parley with Salvatore Moretti was an abandoned railway terminal deep in the industrial district of New Jersey—a vast, cavernous concrete cathedral echoing with the dripping of rainwater and the distant hum of highway traffic.
My black armored Cadillac pulled up to the center of the loading platform, flanked by two SUVs carrying Frankie and twelve of my most trusted enforcers.
Across the terminal, Salvatore Moretti stood with his remaining senior captains. He was an older man, silver-haired and arrogant, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that contrasted sharply with the grime of the abandoned depot.
We stepped out of the cars, meeting halfway under the flickering light of a single overhead sodium lamp.
"Vance," Salvatore sneered, crossing his arms. "You're a hard man to reach these days. I hear you've traded your war room for a nursery."
"You made a grave miscalculation, Salvatore," I said, my voice cutting through the damp air like a razor. "You sent a killer into my home. You threatened my son."
Salvatore scoffed, though I could see the slight tension in his jaw. "Business is business, Alexander. You control the ports; we wanted a slice. Viktor acted on his own initiative."
"Viktor is currently telling my interrogators every dirty secret your family has buried for the last decade," I replied coldly. "And your nephew Marco is healing in a hospital bed wondering why his uncle dragged him into a war he couldn't win."
Frankie stepped forward, opening a heavy leather briefcase and snapping it shut on the hood of a nearby rusted oil drum. Inside were documents detailing the complete transfer of Moretti's secondary shipping routes and financial holdings directly to my syndicate.
"Here are your terms," I stated, stepping closer until I was towering over Salvatore. "You sign over your remaining logistics channels in Brooklyn and Queens. You pull your men out of my territory permanently. And you live out the rest of your days knowing that if any of your associates so much as looks in the direction of my hotel, I won't just take your businesses—I'll take everything."
Salvatore's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He looked at his captains, then back at me. He knew he had no leverage left. Viktor's capture had compromised their entire operational network.
With trembling hands, Salvatore picked up the golden fountain pen Frankie offered him and signed his empire away on the dotted line.
"It's over," Salvatore spat, tossing the pen back onto the briefcase.
"It's over," I agreed, snapping the briefcase shut. "Go home, Salvatore. And stay there."
As I turned back toward my car, a sudden movement caught my peripheral vision. One of Moretti's desperate younger capos, unwilling to accept defeat, pulled a hidden revolver from his waistband and raised it toward my back.
"Boss! Look out!" Frankie roared.
Before I could even draw my sidearm, a deafening crack echoed through the cavernous terminal.
It wasn't my gun.
From the shadows near the upper gantry, a sniper's round punched cleanly through the concrete pillar beside the gunman, and a second shot struck the capo's wrist, sending his weapon clattering harmlessly to the ground.
My tactical backup swarmed instantly, pinning the rogue capo to the floor.
I looked up toward the catwalks. Standing in the dim light was a figure in tactical gear, lowering a scoped rifle. It was one of my elite Overwatch spotters, whom I had positioned secretly above the rafters just in case Moretti tried a double-cross.
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I exhaled slowly, adjusting my suit jacket.
"Let's go home, Frankie," I said, getting back into the Cadillac. The war was officially over. My empire was secure, and for the first time in years, the horizon was completely clear.
