Chapter 7 - THE SIEGE OF QUEENS
By midnight, the Moretti estate was locked down like a military fortress.
The three paralyzed traitors—Donato and his two associates—had been zip-tied to chairs in the basement holding cells, waiting to wake up and explain their treason. The rest of the regional capos had been sent home under heavy armed escort, utterly terrified of the woman who could neutralize a coup d'état with a wooden spoon and a smile.
Inside Luca’s private study, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of gunpowder, whiskey, and raw power.
Victor Reyes stood near the desk, laying out a series of digital tablet displays showing satellite maps of Salvatore Marcone’s stronghold—an expansive, heavily fortified trucking depot located in the industrial yards of Long Island City.
"We have confirmation, Mr. Moretti," Victor reported crisply. "Marcone knows his delivery failed. Our wiretaps picked up his frantic calls to his enforcers ten minutes ago. He’s packing up his inner circle, preparing to bolt for a private airstrip in New Jersey by dawn."
Luca sat behind his mahogany desk, leaning back in his leather chair. He wasn't drinking whiskey tonight. He was cleaning the slide of a customized Sig Sauer 9mm pistol with a soft flannel cloth, his movements calm, methodical, and chillingly precise.
Standing near the fireplace, sipping a cup of chamomile tea, was Grace. She had changed into a dark woolen sweater and jeans, looking like she belonged in a quiet country cottage rather than the headquarters of a multi-million-dollar criminal syndicate.
"You're not letting him run," Grace stated quietly, watching Luca’s hands.
"Marcone sent poison into my kitchen," Luca said, his voice dropping into a flat, lethal register that made the hairs on the back of the neck stand up. "He threatened my home. He threatened you. In our world, Grace, if you let a rabid dog live, it only teaches the rest of the pack that biting you has no consequences."
Grace walked slowly across the Persian rug and stopped right beside Luca’s desk. She set her teacup down.
"I'm coming with you," she said.
Luca stopped cleaning the pistol. He looked up sharply, his ice-blue eyes flaring with immediate resistance. "Absolutely not."
"Luca," Grace said, her voice dropping all pretense of argument, carrying the exact, unyielding authority of her father. "Salvatore Marcone is a coward. Cowards don't run until they're cornered, and when they're cornered, they do stupid, desperate things. If you roll up on that depot with thirty armed men, he’s going to use human shields, explosives, or hostages."
"My tactical team is the best in the country—" Luca started.
"Your tactical team is trained for war, not psychology," Grace interrupted, leaning down slightly so she was eye-level with him. "Who do you think taught those dogs to trust? Who do you think knows how to read the posture of a desperate animal backed into a corner?"
She placed her warm, soft hand over his large, calloused one, stopping him from picking up the gun.
"You brought me into your world, Luca. Now let me finish what we started."
Luca stared at her hand on his, then slowly raised his eyes to meet her fierce, unwavering hazel gaze. For a man who controlled thousands of armed soldiers, saying no to Grace Walker was physically impossible.
A slow, defeated sigh escaped Luca’s lips, followed by a faint, helpless smile.
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"If you get so much as a scratch, Grace," Luca whispered, his voice thick with raw, protective emotion, "I will burn every shipping yard from here to the Atlantic."
"Deal," she smiled softly.
