Chapter 7 - Reckoning in the Basement
By four o’clock in the morning, the Greenwich estate was wrapped in an unnatural, heavy stillness.
Down in the basement armory—the soundproofed, windowless room where secrets were buried and debts were settled—the air was thick with the scent of gun oil, concrete, and fear.
Vincent Moretti was strapped securely to a heavy steel interrogation chair beneath the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb. His silk suit was ruined, his face bruised from the ride in the back of the Suburban, and his eyes darted frantically around the concrete walls.
The heavy iron door swung open.
I walked into the room. I wasn't wearing my coat anymore. My shirt sleeves were rolled up to my elbows, revealing the corded muscle and old scars of a man who had clawed his way to the top of the New York underworld.
I pulled up a metal folding chair, sat down directly in front of Vincent, and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at him in silence for a full minute.
“Dominic… please,” Vincent choked out, his voice hoarse. “We’re family. Remember when we took over the docks in Brooklyn? Remember when we—”
“I remember every single thing you did, Vincent,” I interrupted, my voice terrifyingly calm. “I remember you standing at Isabelle’s grave. I remember you holding my daughters’ hands while they cried. And I remember you ordering the hit that shattered my family.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a heavy silver signet ring—the one he had left behind on the desk in the study—and dropped it onto the small metal table between us with a sharp clink.
“You wanted my empire,” I said softly. “You wanted the docks, the warehouses, the shipping routes. You thought if you killed Isabelle, I’d break.”
“I’m sorry,” Vincent wept, genuine terror shaking his frame. “I swear to God, I’m sorry!”
“Sorry doesn't fix fourteen months of silence from my daughters, Vincent,” I stood up slowly, towering over him. “Sorry doesn't bring Isabelle back.”
I didn't pull a trigger. I didn't have to. I looked toward the heavy iron door and nodded once.
Marcus stepped out of the shadows, holding a heavy manila folder and a thick roll of industrial-grade duct tape.
“You’re not going to kill me?” Vincent whispered, horrified.
“Killing you would be too easy,” I said, turning my back on him and walking toward the exit. “Marcus is going to take you to a freighter leaving for South America tonight. You’ll spend the rest of your life working the lowest labor deck of a cargo ship under an assumed name, with zero money, zero protection, and zero identity. If you ever set foot in North America again, I won't send an assassin. I’ll come do it myself.”
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As I stepped out of the armory and closed the heavy iron door behind me, the muffled screams of my former best friend echoed down the concrete corridor, fading away into nothingness.
The snake was gone. The poison had been drained from the house.
