Chapter 8 - The Fall of Carmine Falcone
The rain had returned to New York, slicking the streets of Brooklyn in reflective shades of yellow and red neon.
At the top of the twenty-story Falcone Tower, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. Inside the luxury penthouse, total panic reigned.
Carmine Falcone, an old man with thin gray hair, a heavy gold signet ring, and a expensive silk suit, was frantically stuffing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into a leather duffel bag. His remaining three bodyguards stood near the reinforced steel elevator doors, their rifles shaking in their hands.
DING.
The elevator indicator light clicked from the 19th floor to the 20th.
"Shoot the doors!" Falcone screamed, stumbling backward toward his heavy mahogany desk. "Shoot them as soon as they open!"
The three bodyguards opened fire, sending a hail of bullets tearing through the steel elevator doors. Sparks flew across the marble foyer, smoke filling the air.
When the shooting stopped, the elevator doors slid open slowly.
It was empty.
Before the bodyguards could react, the heavy reinforced glass skylight above the penthouse living room shattered into ten thousand pieces.
Moretti tactical operators rappelled down heavy black ropes through the ceiling, firing flashbang grenades that exploded with blinding white light and deafening booms.
Within five seconds, the three bodyguards were disarmed, pinned to the floor, and secured with heavy zip-ties.
Aleandro Moretti walked calmly out of the stairwell entrance, stepping over the shattered glass. He wore his dark coat, his face completely devoid of emotion as he approached Carmine Falcone, who was cowering behind his desk, holding a small snub-nosed revolver with trembling hands.
"Stay back, Aleandro!" Falcone shrieked, his voice cracking with old age and terror. "I have connections in Washington! You kill me, and the entire federal government will come down on your head!"
Aleandro did not stop. He walked straight up to the desk, grabbed the barrel of Falcone's revolver with his gloved hand, and wrenched it out of the old man's grip with effortless strength, dropping it onto the rug.
He reached out, grabbing Falcone by his lapels, and lifted the elderly mobster out of his leather chair, slamming him against the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the city.
"You tried to poison my eight-year-old son," Aleandro whispered, his face inches from Falcone’s pale, sweat-streaked skin. "And then you sent hitmen to murder a three-year-old girl in her bed."
"It was business, Aleandro! Just business!" Falcone sobbed, tears spilling over his withered cheeks. "We can make a deal! I'll give you my entire territory! Everything!"
"There are no deals for men who hunt children," Aleandro said softly.
He raised his right hand, revealing a small silver audio recording device.
"This is your confession, Carmine," Aleandro murmured. "Your own captains gave up your offshore accounts, your hit lists, and your wire transfers hour ago. You aren't dying tonight."
Falcone blinked, confused. "What?"
"Dying is too easy," Aleandro said coldly, tossing the old man onto the floor. "You will spend the rest of your natural life in a federal maximum-security prison, stripped of every dollar, every piece of land, and every name you ever held. Every guard in that prison will be on my payroll. You will wake up every single morning remembering the child you tried to break."
May you like
Aleandro turned his back on the weeping old man, walking toward the balcony as Marco and federal agents stepped into the room to take Falcone into custody.
The war for New York was over.
