Chapter 8 - The Final Strike
With Viktor and Marcus neutralized, the Moretti syndicate realized their internal play had failed catastrophically. But pride and desperation drove them to make one final, fatal mistake: they decided to strike Roman DeLuca on his own turf during a regional mafia summit in downtown Washington, D.C.
They thought Roman would be vulnerable. They thought his attention would be divided protecting his estate.
They were catastrophically wrong.
Two days after the kitchen confession, Roman suited up in an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his shoulder holster concealed beneath his jacket, his face carved from cold, merciless marble.
Before walking out the door of the McLean estate, he walked into the guest suite where Josephine was folding laundry.
She looked up as he entered. “You’re heading into the city.”
“The Moretti family called a summit at their warehouse district depot,” Roman said, his voice flat as an executioner’s. “They think I’m hiding behind my walls. I’m going to show them why my walls are built around an army.”
Josephine set the laundry down, walked over to him, and straightened his silk tie with steady, practiced fingers.
“Don't leave any loose ends, Mr. DeLuca,” she said softly.
“I won't,” Roman promised. He cupped her face, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to her lips. “Lock the doors. Stay with my boys. When I come back, we’re going to talk about what happens next.”
Two hours later, the Moretti warehouse depot on the banks of the Anacostia River erupted into a warzone.
Roman didn't negotiate. He didn't offer terms. He brought fifty of his most elite enforcers, backed by heavy tactical suppression, and tore through the Moretti defenses like a buzzsaw through timber.
By the time Roman kicked open the door to the syndicate’s private office, Don Moretti—an aging, arrogant mob boss—was sitting behind his desk, trembling as he stared down the barrel of Roman’s Sig Sauer.
“You... you can't do this,” Moretti gasped, pressing back against his chair. “The commission will never allow—!”
“The commission is currently reading my terms of unconditional surrender,” Roman interrupted, his voice dropping into a lethal hum. “You sent men into my home. You threatened my sons. And you tried to burn my life to the ground.”
“Take whatever you want! Take the shipping lanes! Just don't kill me—!”
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“I don't want your shipping lanes, Moretti,” Roman said coldly. “I want your absolute, permanent absence from the East Coast.”
Before Moretti could beg for his life, Roman fired once—clean, precise, definitive—ending the Moretti syndicate’s reign of terror in the capital once and for all.
