Chapter 8 - The Shadow at the Gate
Peace in Brooklyn, however, is never completely free.
In October 2026, a lingering ghost from the past tried to settle an old score.
Marco Moretti—the younger, hot-headed cousin of the imprisoned Moretti Don—had returned from exile in Canada. He was broke, desperate, and convinced that if he killed Dominic Falcone, the remnants of the New York families would rally under his banner.
He didn't attack the estate directly. Even Marco wasn't stupid enough to scale iron gates guarded by Bruno and twelve armed sentries.
He waited for the vulnerable seam.
It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Bruno had driven the sedan to the elementary school on 6th Avenue to pick up Norah. Rain was falling in heavy, gray sheets, blinding the traffic along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
As the sedan pulled out of the school alleyway, a heavy municipal garbage truck—stolen two hours earlier—swerved across the wet asphalt, slamming broadside into the front bumper of the bulletproof car.
The impact was loud, like a cannon shot in the narrow street.
The sedan's airbags deployed instantly. Bruno, his forehead bleeding from a small gash where he hit the steering column, blinked through the white powder, his hand immediately dropping to the heavy automatic under his coat.
"Norah!" he roared, checking the rearview mirror.
In the backseat, secured in her heavy car seat, Norah was shaken but unhurt. "Uncle Bruno! The car went boom!"
Outside, three men in dark raincoats jumped from the cab of the garbage truck, pulling automatic weapons from under their coats. Marco Moretti stepped out behind them, a heavy iron crowbar in his hand, moving toward the rear door of the trapped sedan.
"Get the kid!" Marco yelled over the sound of rain. "We take the kid, Falcone gives us the docks!"
Before Marco could touch the door handle, the alleyway echoed with a sound that didn't belong to the rain.
It was the low, thunderous roar of a twin-turbo V8 engine.
A massive black SUV roared around the corner from 6th Avenue, mounting the curb, throwing up a spray of dirty water five feet high. It didn't slow down. It slammed directly into the rear of the garbage truck, pushing the twenty-ton vehicle three feet to the side, clearing a path.
The driver’s door of the SUV flew open.
Dominic Falcone stepped out into the pouring rain.
He wasn't wearing a suit coat. He was in his white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his rain-soaked hair plastered to his forehead. In his right hand, he carried an old Colt .45—the gun his grandfather had brought from Palermo.
Behind him, Sal Greco stepped out of the passenger side, two heavy shotguns held casually across his chest.
Marco Moretti froze, his hand still on the door handle of Bruno’s car. "Falcone..."
Dominic walked through the rain. He didn't run. He didn't hide behind car doors. He walked with the heavy, unyielding momentum of an avalanche sliding down a mountain.
"Marco," Dominic said. His voice carried over the sound of the storm, clear and terrifyingly steady. "You picked the wrong car."
The three gunmen raised their weapons.
Sal Greco didn't wait. Two heavy, deafening blasts from his shotgun tore through the wet air. The two gunmen on the left hit the asphalt before they could clear their safety catches.
The third gunman turned to fire at Dominic, but Dominic didn't even blink. He raised the Colt, pulled the trigger once, and the gunman dropped his weapon, clutching a shattered shoulder as he collapsed into the gutter.
Marco dropped the crowbar. It hit the wet pavement with a loud clang.
He fell to his knees in the dirty rainwater, raising his hands, his face pale with horror. "Dominic! Please! It was just business! We just wanted leverage!"
Dominic reached Marco. He didn't shoot him. He reached down, grabbed Marco by the throat with one hand, and lifted him until the man’s shoes were dangling six inches above the flooded street.
Dominic pulled him close, his black eyes inches from Marco’s terrified face.
"Listen to me very carefully," Dominic whispered, his breath warm against the freezing rain. "You touch a stone on my house, I kill your business. You touch my men, I kill your family. But if you ever look toward that child again... I will dig a hole so deep under the East River that God himself won't find your bones."
Dominic tossed him into the pool of muddy water like a sack of trash.
Sal stepped forward, placing the warm barrel of his shotgun against Marco’s forehead. "Do we finish it, Boss?"
Dominic looked at the back window of the sedan. Through the dark tinted glass, he could see Norah’s small face looking out, holding Bo against the window.
"No," Dominic said, wiping the rain from his eyes. "Call the police from an anonymous box. Tell them Marco Moretti is sitting on 6th Avenue with three dead hitmen and a stolen city vehicle. Let him spend the rest of his life in Sing Sing."
He walked to the rear door of the sedan, pulled it open, and reached inside.
He unbuckled Norah’s car seat and lifted her out into his arms, wrapping his heavy wool coat around her to keep her dry from the storm.
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Norah buried her face in his neck, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around his collar. "Mr. Dom... the bad men made a loud noise."
"I know, little bird," Dominic murmured, holding her tight against his chest as he walked toward his SUV. "The noise is over now. Let's go home."
