Chapter 6 - The Setup at the Grandview
The Grandview Hotel was a fading relic of 1970s luxury sitting on the edge of the city’s waterfront district. Its neon sign hummed loudly in the drizzle, half the letters burned out, casting a dim amber light across the greasy pavement of the parking lot.
Inside Room 412, the air was stale, smelling of old carpet and tobacco.
Liam sat in a dark plush armchair in the corner of the room, completely submerged in shadows. He held no weapon in his hands; his arms rested casually on the armrests, his legs crossed.
In the opposite corner, standing beside the window with his arms folded, stood Don Manuel Moretti himself. The old man wore his finest charcoal wool coat, a silver-tipped cane resting against his knee.
"They are in the elevator," Marco, Moretti’s chief security captain, reported softly from the door, a heavy earpiece pressed against his ear. "Two men. Greg Vance and Deputy Miller. Miller is carrying an unregistered 9mm pistol with a suppressor. Vance is carrying a hunting knife."
Don Moretti pulled out a fresh cigar, cutting the tip with a satisfying snip. "Let them come. Let them feel like predators for two more seconds."
Outside the heavy oak door of Room 412, heavy footsteps echoed down the carpeted hallway.
A sharp lock-picking tool scratched against the keyhole. The door latch clicked open.
The door swung open violently.
Greg Vance charged into the room first, his face twisted in a manic, bloodthirsty sneer, raising a long hunting knife. "Naomi! You little bitch, I know you're—"
Greg stopped dead in his tracks.
Behind him, Deputy Miller—a fat, balding man in a stained leather jacket holding a suppressed handgun—slammed the door shut, locking it behind them. "Cover the bathroom, Greg!" Miller barked.
Then, the floor lamps in the corner clicked on, bathing the room in harsh, yellow light.
Greg and Miller froze.
Sitting in the armchair, looking entirely bored, was Liam.
Standing by the window, puffing calmly on a cigar, was Don Manuel Moretti, flanked by four massive, silent enforcers whose hands were buried deep inside their custom suits.
The air in the room instantly turned to lead.
Deputy Miller’s face went chalk-white. His hand began to tremble, the suppressed gun shaking violently in his grip. He recognized Don Moretti instantly—every dirty cop in the three-county area knew the face of the man who owned the docks.
"D-Don Moretti," Miller stammered, his confidence evaporating like mist. "We... we were told this room was occupied by an escaped fugitive..."
"Put the gun down, Miller," Moretti said smoothly, taking a slow puff of his cigar. "Before my men blow your arm off and toss you into the river."
Miller dropped the gun onto the carpet as if it had turned into a venomous snake, raising his trembling hands into the air. "Don Manuel, please... I didn't know this was your business! Greg told me—"
"Shut up, Miller!" Greg screamed, his eyes wild, spinning around like a trapped rat. "He’s bluffing! He's just a mobster! Shoot him!"
Greg lunged toward Liam with the hunting knife, completely consumed by unhinged rage.
Liam didn't even stand up.
As Greg closed the distance, Liam simply leaned to the right, dodged the clumsy downward stab, grabbed Greg’s wrist, and twisted it sharply outward.
SNAP.
Greg screamed, a high-pitched, pathetic shriek, as his wrist fractured. The hunting knife clattered to the floor. Before Greg could fall, Liam stood up in one fluid motion, grabbed Greg by his throat, and slammed him face-first onto the glass coffee table in the center of the room.
The glass shattered into a thousand pieces.
Greg lay groaning on the floor, bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts, clutching his ruined wrist, completely broken.
Liam placed his heavy leather boot squarely on the back of Greg’s neck, pinning him to the floor, pressing just enough weight to make it difficult for him to breathe.
"You brought a knife to a meeting with the Moretti family, Greg," Liam said softly, looking down at the weeping man beneath his boot. "That shows a severe lack of respect."
Don Moretti walked slowly over to Deputy Miller, using his silver cane to tap the nervous cop on the chest.
"Deputy Miller," Moretti said softly. "You have been taking fifteen hundred dollars a month from the rival union syndicate to look the other way at the rail yard. Did you think I didn't know?"
Miller began to sob, sinking to his knees. "Please, Don Manuel... I have a family... I'll do whatever you want!"
"You will do exactly two things, Deputy," Moretti commanded coldly. "First, you will take your personal vehicle, drive to the precinct, and hand in your resignation effective immediately. Second, you will ensure that every fake police report, every warrant, and every accusation against Naomi Vance vanishes from the county database before midnight."
"Done! It’s done!" Miller choked out, wiping tears from his face. "I'll do it right now!"
"If you fail," Moretti added softly, "or if you ever speak her name again... Marco will visit your home. Do we understand each other?"
"Yes! Yes, sir!" Miller scrambled backward, grabbed his coat, and bolted out the door like a whipped dog, leaving his cousin bleeding on the carpet.
Don Moretti looked down at Greg, who was weeping uncontrollably under Liam’s boot.
"Now... what do we do with the husband?" Moretti asked, turning to Liam. "Do we sink him in the bay?"
May you like
Liam looked down at the pathetic, groveling man beneath his foot—the man who had terrorized a helpless woman for four years, reduced to a sobbing wreck in a cheap hotel room.
"No, Don Manuel," Liam said, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. "Death is too easy for him. He wanted to ruin her life using the law. Let's ruin his."
