Chapter 6 - Blood on the Hudson
Half an hour later, inside the subterranean warehouse complex owned by Moretti Holdings along the Hudson River waterfront, the storm broke.
Aleandro Moretti stood in the center of the vast, concrete-floored loading bay, his dark overcoat fluttering in the cold river wind blowing through the open bay doors. Around him stood twelve of his most trusted captains, their hands resting near their holsters, their faces grim.
Vincent Russo stepped out of the shadows, supporting a shaken but unharmed Sarah Bennett, while little Lily clung tightly to her mother’s neck, wide-eyed and terrified.
Aleandro rushed forward, dropping to his knees and pulling Sarah and Lily into his arms. He buried his face in his daughter’s curls, his entire frame shaking with a mixture of immense relief and murderous fury.
“You’re safe,” Aleandro whispered fiercely against Sarah’s hair. “I’ve got you. I swear to God, nobody will ever touch you again.”
“Aleandro,” Vincent panted, stepping up beside them. “It was Marco. He ordered the hit on the apartment. The men who took Sarah were his private payroll.”
Aleandro stood up slowly.
The tenderness in his gray eyes evaporated in a heartbeat, replaced by the terrifying, glacial stillness of an apex predator about to strike. He handed Sarah over to two trusted guards.
“Take them to the armored transport,” Aleandro instructed quietly. “Do not let them out of your sight.”
“Aleandro, don't go after him alone,” Sarah pleaded, catching his sleeve. “It’s a trap.”
“It is a trap,” Aleandro agreed softly, kissing her forehead. “Which is why I am the only one who can spring it.”
He turned and walked toward the center of the loading bay.
From the shadows of the upper gantry walkway, a slow, mocking round of applause echoed down to the concrete floor.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Marco Bellini leaned against the metal railing of the walkway, looking down at the Don of Moretti Holdings with a triumphant, manic grin. In his hand, Marco held a detonator wired to the explosive charges planted around the structural pillars of the warehouse.
“Bravo, Aleandro!” Marco called out, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls. “You finally found your heart. And all it took was a waitress and a brat to destroy everything you built.”
Aleandro didn't shout. He didn't reach for his gun. He simply stood tall, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets. “You built your career on my coattails, Marco. You were my brother in everything but blood. Why?”
“Because you grew soft, Aleandro!” Marco roared, stepping down the metal stairs toward the main floor, keeping the detonator raised. “You sat on that forty-second-floor throne and forgot what it took to rule New York! You wanted to play domestic bliss with a civilian while the Chicago syndicate offered us half the northern shipping lanes to step aside!”
“The Chicago syndicate?” Aleandro’s voice cut through the cavernous room like a razor. “You sold our legacy to the men who murdered my father?”
“I secured our future,” Marco spat, stepping within twenty feet of him. He raised a pistol with his left hand while keeping the detonator steady in his right. “And now, I’m going to secure my own throne.”
Marco’s finger tightened on the trigger of his pistol.
“The man you trusted most reached for a gun.” The phrase flashed through the air with violent inevitability.
Before Marco could complete the draw, Aleandro moved with terrifying, unnatural speed.
He didn't draw a pistol. He didn't hesitate.
With the explosive burst of a coiled spring, Aleandro lunged forward across the concrete, closing the distance between them in less than a second. His hand clamped around Marco’s wrist, twisting it upward with bone-crushing force.
CRACK!
Marco screamed out in agony as his wrist snapped backward, the pistol dropping harmlessly to the floor.
Before Marco could recover, Aleandro delivered a devastating right hook to his jaw, followed by a knee strike to his midsection that lifted the traitor off his feet and slammed him hard against the concrete floor.
Marco lay gasping, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, the detonator slipping from his trembling fingers.
Aleandro stood over him, his chest heaving, his gray eyes burning with the unholy fire of absolute vengeance. He slowly drew his custom Beretta, cocked the hammer with a sharp, metallic click, and pressed the barrel directly against Marco’s forehead.
“You talk about weakness, Marco,” Aleandro whispered, his voice dangerously low. “The greatest weakness a man can have is believing he can betray family and survive.”
“Aleandro... wait—” Marco choked out, tears of terror mixing with blood on his face.
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“Goodbye, my brother,” Aleandro said.
BANG!
