Chapter 8 - The Confrontation at the Warehouse
By Saturday morning, the storm had cleared, leaving New Orleans washed in brilliant sunlight and humid spring air.
At 4:00 a.m., while Iris was still asleep upstairs in the safehouse guest suite, Salvatore Mancini stood in the center of an abandoned commercial shipping warehouse down by the industrial docks.
Kneeling on the concrete floor before him, bound and gagged, was Tomaso.
His expensive Italian suit was ruined, stained with dockside grease and blood from a strike delivered by Marco Greco during the extraction an hour earlier.
Salvatore stepped slowly toward him, his dark leather shoes clicking against the hollow concrete floor. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't wave a gun. He simply stood over his former friend with the absolute stillness of a gathering hurricane.
Marco pulled the gag from Tomaso’s mouth.
Tomaso spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, laughing breathlessly. “Sal... you think killing me solves anything? The federal prosecutors already have the hospital files. The medical board is investigating the surgeon. You can’t shoot your way out of this one.”
Salvatore crouched down until he was eye-level with the beaten man.
“You tried to touch my daughter,” Salvatore said. His voice was so quiet it sounded like a ghost.
“She’s fine!” Tomaso gasped, flinching back from the dead, gray void in Salvatore’s eyes. “The surgery worked! The kid is alive!”
“And you tried to hurt Iris,” Salvatore continued, ignoring him completely. “You sent men into a hospital parking garage to intimidate a woman who had nothing to do with our business.”
Tomaso’s eyes widened with sudden, genuine terror as he realized what he had done wrong. It wasn't the mob politics, the territory wars, or the money. It was the woman.
“Sal... wait—!”
Salvatore stood up smoothly. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply looked at Marco.
“Pack him up,” Salvatore commanded coldly. “Ship him to the South American contacts. Make sure he has plenty of time to reflect on his choices in a concrete box six feet underground where nobody speaks English.”
“Understood, boss,” Marco said, signaling two enforcers.
As Tomaso was dragged away screaming into the dawn, Salvatore adjusted his cuffs, pulled out his phone, and dialed a secure number.
“The board inquiry will be dropped by noon,” Salvatore told the hospital’s chief executive attorney who answered on the first ring. “And if I hear another whisper about Dr. Delaqua’s license, you’ll be practicing law from a federal penitentiary in Montana. Do we understand each other?”
“Y-yes, Mr. Mancini,” the attorney stammered before slamming the phone down.
May you like
Salvatore hung up, walked out of the warehouse into the bright Louisiana morning, and got into his SUV. The war was over. The threat was neutralized.
It was time to go home.
