Chapter 7 - The Final Verdict in the Dark
The sub-basement holding cell smelled of damp concrete, rust, and dried blood.
Marcus sat on a steel cot in the center of the reinforced cell, his right leg wrapped in heavy orthopedic gauze, his face pale and stubbled with a week's worth of dark beard.
When he heard the heavy steel door unlock and swing open, he looked up, a bitter, broken smile touching his lips.
"Well, if it isn't the king of Chicago," Marcus rasped, coughing softly. "Come to gloat, little brother?"
I walked slowly into the cell, stopping three feet from the cot. I didn't carry a gun. I didn't need one.
"I didn't come to gloat," I said quietly. "I came to settle accounts."
Marcus let out a harsh laugh. "What are you going to do? Kill me? Send me to a federal black site? Go ahead. My death won't change the truth, Alejandro. Those boys carry our blood. They’re Morettis. No matter how hard you try to play the loving uncle, they’ll grow up to be cold, ruthless bastards just like us."
I stared at him for a long, silent moment. I saw the hollow despair hiding behind his bravado—the realization that his entire life’s work had evaporated into smoke, and that he had nothing left.
"You're right about one thing, Marcus," I said, my voice steady and cold as winter ice. "They are Morettis."
Marcus tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "Meaning?"
"Meaning they carry our blood, but they won't carry our sins," I said, leaning in close so he could see the absolute finality in my eyes. "Tomorrow morning, a private cargo flight leaves O'Hare for a secure estate in the Swiss Alps. A quiet town. No syndicates. No guns. No cartel wars. They’re going to grow up with a normal life, a proper education, and a family that loves them."
Marcus’s face twisted in panic. "No! You can't take my sons away from me!"
"They aren't your sons, Marcus," I corrected him softly. "They are my nephews. And you... you stopped existing twenty-five years ago."
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a manila envelope, tossing it onto the metal cot beside him.
Marcus looked down at it with trembling fingers. Inside were forged identity papers, a passport under a new surname, and a one-way ticket to a maximum-security federal penitentiary in the middle of the Mojave Desert where no one would ever hear the name Marcus Moretti again.
"You're sending me to federal prison?" Marcus whispered, horror dawning in his eyes.
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"No," I corrected, turning on my heel toward the open cell door. "I'm sending you to oblivion."
As the heavy steel door slammed shut and the electronic locks clicked into place, echoing off the concrete walls, I knew the nightmare was finally over.
