Chapter 8 - The Siege of Mulberry Street
At 2:00 AM, the Mulberry Street social club was surrounded.
No sirens. No flashing lights. Just four black SUVs blocking both ends of the narrow street, and twenty men in dark tactical gear moving like shadows through the alleyways.
I stepped out of the lead vehicle, my heavy wool coat snapping in the cold wind, a customized Sig Sauer resting comfortably in my shoulder holster. Marco was right behind me, carrying a heavy iron sledgehammer.
"Clear the back door," I instructed quietly. "Nobody in, nobody out."
Crash.
Marco swung the sledgehammer with brutal efficiency, shattering the heavy oak front doors of the social club in a single blow. Wood splinters flew across the tiled foyer as we swarmed inside.
The men guarding the front room didn't even have time to draw their weapons before Marco's team had them pinned against the wall, zip-ties biting into their wrists.
I walked down the familiar hallway toward the back room where Salvatore and his inner circle held court. The air reeked of cheap bourbon and panic.
I kicked the door open.
Salvatore was standing by the mahogany table, a snub-nosed revolver in his hand, his face pale with sudden, freezing terror. His four remaining capos scrambled for their holsters, but stopped dead the moment Marco and three of my veterans raised their weapons, painting laser sights across their chests.
"V-Vincent," Salvatore stammered, lowering his revolver by an inch. "What is the meaning of this? This is a violation of the commission—"
"The commission is dissolved," I said, walking slowly into the center of the room.
My voice was so quiet, so devoid of emotion, that it made the silence in the room feel suffocating.
"You planned a hit on my family, Sal," I continued, stopping two feet away from him. "You broke the one rule that kept you breathing."
"I—I didn't—"
"Don't lie," I snapped. "It's unbecoming of a captain."
Salvatore's eyes darted toward the door, calculating his odds. He saw none.
"You think you're untouchable, Moretti?" Salvatore snarled, his pride suddenly overriding his fear as he raised the revolver toward my chest. "You think you can play family man and still run the underworld? You're weak!"
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
The chamber was empty. Marco had stripped the firing pins from Salvatore's detail three hours ago.
Before Salvatore could react, I stepped forward and struck him across the face with the heavy steel butt of my pistol. He dropped like a stone, crashing hard against the mahogany table before sliding onto the bloody floorboards, blood pouring from a split eyebrow.
I stood over him, pressing the cold barrel of my gun right against his forehead.
"I'm not weak, Sal," I whispered. "I'm just finally protecting what's mine."
I lowered the gun, stepping back. "Put him in the trunk of the lead car. Ship him upstate to the old quarry. He spends the rest of his life breaking rocks."
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"And the rest of them?" Marco asked, gesturing to the cowering capos.
"Tell them the new rules," I said, turning toward the exit. "Anyone who steps out of line answers to me personally. Anyone who touches a hair on my family's head doesn't even get a trial."
