Chapter 7 - The Trap is Sprung
Two weeks later, the war came to its final, decisive conclusion.
Don Carmine Falcone—the elderly, arrogant patriarch of the Falcone syndicate—sat in his private study in his heavily fortified estate in Long Island.
He was waiting for a call from Julian Vance. He had been waiting for two weeks.
"Where are they?" Carmine growled to his chief lieutenant, a burly man named Rocco. "Why hasn't Vance reported in? Did the asthma attack kill Moretti or not?"
"We haven't heard from Vance since the docks meeting, Don Carmine," Rocco said nervously. "And the Moretti estate has been completely silent. No news, no funerals, no public movement."
"Silence means victory," Carmine sneered, pouring himself a glass of expensive brandy. "Vance probably took control of the council and is keeping it quiet until he consolidates power. Send ten men to the Brooklyn office. Tell Vance I want my forty percent of the docks by—"
The heavy oak doors of Carmine’s study blew open with a violent, thunderous crash.
BOOM!
Shattered wood and steel shrapnel flew across the room. Before Carmine could reach for the gun in his desk drawer, four tactical flashbangs bounced across the Persian carpet, blinding the room with deafening white light.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"WHAT THE—" Rocco screamed, reaching blindly for his shoulder holster.
A single gunshot rang out through the smoke. Rocco collapsed to the floor, clutching his shattered shoulder.
Through the fog of smoke and flash powder, thirty elite Moretti soldiers swarmed the room, securing every door, window, and balcony with terrifying efficiency.
And stepping into the middle of Carmine’s destroyed sanctuary was Lucas Moretti.
He looked magnificent—dressed in an immaculate navy suit, his face fully healed, his gray-blue eyes burning with a cold, absolute power that sent a wave of icy terror straight into Carmine Falcone’s soul.
Carmine dropped his glass of brandy. It shattered against the floorboards.
"You..." Carmine gasped, his old voice trembling. "You're dead... Vance said your lungs failed... he said you were dying on the floor..."
Lucas walked slowly toward Carmine’s desk. He didn't draw a gun. He didn't need to. He possessed something far more lethal: total, undisputed victory.
"Julian Vance was mistaken," Lucas said smoothly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out Julian’s silver signet ring—now cracked and blood-stained—and tossed it onto Carmine’s desk.
It rolled across the polished mahogany, coming to a rest right beside Carmine’s trembling hand.
Carmine stared at the ring. His face turned the color of ash. "Lucas... wait... we can talk... the docks... you can have the entire East Coast..."
"I already have the entire East Coast, Carmine," Lucas said quietly. "Your lieutenants in Manhattan surrendered an hour ago. Your warehouses in Queens are currently being seized by my Capos. And your personal bank accounts in the Bahamas have been liquidated."
Carmine fell back into his leather chair, looking up at the young Don who had shattered three decades of Falcone dominance in a single afternoon.
"How?" Carmine whispered, tears of defeat welling in his old eyes. "How did you survive Vance’s trap? Who betrayed us?"
Lucas leaned down over the desk, his gray-blue eyes holding Carmine’s in a grip of steel.
"A six-year-old girl," Lucas whispered softly. "A maid’s daughter with pink pajamas and a ten-dollar inhaler."
He stood up and turned toward the door.
"Gabriel," Lucas commanded flatly. "Take Don Carmine into custody. The Falcone family is officially dissolved."
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As Lucas walked out of the ruined mansion into the bright afternoon sun, the heavy iron gates of the Falcone estate swung shut behind him for the last time.
The war was over. The city was his.
