Chapter 7 - The Reckoning of Brooklyn
By 2:00 AM, the rain was coming down in sheets over the industrial docks of Red Hook, Brooklyn.
The storm washed over the rusting shipping containers and dark warehouses, creating a bleak, chaotic backdrop for the war that was about to reach its climax. Inside a private, waterfront office overlooking the harbor, Salvatore Marcone sat behind a heavy oak desk, pouring himself a double glass of aged bourbon.
He was nervous. Marco hadn't called to confirm Vincent’s death, and his secondary informants inside the Rossy estate had gone completely dark four hours ago.
"Damn it," Marcone muttered, pulling out an encrypted phone to dial his strike team lead.
Before he could press call, the heavy steel security doors of his office were blown off their hinges with a violent, deafening blast.
Concrete dust and iron splinters filled the air. Marcone’s three personal bodyguards drew their weapons, but a relentless barrage of suppressed gunfire cut them down before they could take aim.
Through the clearing smoke walked Vincent Rossy.
He was dressed in a long black trench coat, carrying a silenced pistol in his right hand. Behind him stepped Enzo and ten heavily armed soldiers clad in black tactical gear.
Marcone fell back into his leather chair, his face turning the color of ash. "Vincent... wait! This is a misunderstanding!"
Vincent didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly across the room, his leather shoes clicking against the blood-stained hardwood floor. He stopped in front of Marcone’s desk, reached out, and picked up the glass of bourbon Marcone had just poured.
"You always did lack patience, Salvatore," Vincent said smoothly, his raspy voice carrying an undeniable, chilling weight. "You couldn't wait for the heavy metals to finish me off. You had to try again with the salt."
"It wasn't me!" Marcone stammered, raising his trembling hands in surrender. "It was the Commission! The other families wanted you out! I was just following orders!"
"The Commission doesn't order poisons," Vincent said coldly, raising his pistol. "Poisons are for cowards who lack the spine to look a man in the eyes when they take his life."
"Vincent, please!" Marcone begged, weeping openly now. "We've known each other for twenty years! I served your father!"
"And my father would have shot you himself," Vincent said.
A single, suppressed THUMP echoed through the office.
Marcone collapsed forward onto his mahogany desk, his glass of bourbon spilling over his ledgers, mingling with the dark blood pooling across the wood.
Vincent lowered his weapon and handed it to Enzo. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark Atlantic Ocean, taking a long, steady breath.
For the first time in six months, the suffocating knot of paranoia and physical agony in his chest began to loosen. The man who had turned his life into a living hell was dead. The mole in his house was gone. His empire was secure once more.
He pulled out his personal phone and dialed a number.
Down in the west wing of the Rossy estate, Norah jumped as her bedside phone rang. She picked it up nervously. "Hello?"
"Norah," Vincent’s deep voice came through the line. The background was filled with the soft sound of falling rain.
"Mr. Rossy?" Norah breathed, her hand tightening on the receiver. "Are you alright?"
"I am fine," Vincent said softly. "The threat is eliminated. You are safe."
Norah let out a long breath, falling back against her pillows. "Thank God."
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"I am coming home," Vincent added, his tone softening in a way no mobster had ever heard him speak. "I'm hungry, Norah. Make me something simple."
Norah smiled into the darkness of her room, tears of relief pricking her eyes. "I'll have a hot bowl waiting for you, Vincent."
