Chapter 7 - The Unraveling
The fallout from Pier 4 hit Boston like a tidal wave by Sunday morning.
The local news stations reported a “major gang shootout at the North End harbor,” attributing it to a violent turf war over shipping routes. No mention of the Moretti name was allowed to surface—the city’s media machine, greased by decades of corruption and fear, quietly buried the details.
Inside the Romano estate, however, the war was already won.
Marco Moretti, having heard of his uncle Anthony’s capture and the total annihilation of their North End assets, fled the state before dawn, leaving the family syndicate headless and fractured. The remaining capos sent formal letters of capitulation to Victor before noon, offering their territories, their silence, and total submission.
I sat in the grand library, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the gray Atlantic.
The door opened softly, and Victor walked in, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee. He looked tired, the hard lines of his face softened by the quiet victory, but his gray eyes were steady as he handed me a cup.
“It’s over,” Victor said, sitting in the armchair opposite mine. “The Morettis are done. Marco is running through Canada with nothing in his pockets, and the commission has officially recognized our territory.”
I took a slow sip of the coffee, letting the warmth spread through my chest. “And the bounty?”
“Withdrawn,” Victor smiled faintly. “In fact, word on the street is that anyone who looks at you sideways now is likely to be dealt with by my own men out of pure self-preservation.”
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for six years. “It feels strange. For my whole life, I thought survival meant being invisible. Keeping my head down. Taking the hits so I could pay the rent.”
“You were surviving,” Victor agreed softly. “Now, you’re living.”
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. The physical contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the undeniable gravity drawing us together.
“What happens now, Victor?” I asked, looking straight into his eyes. “I don’t have a waitress uniform anymore. I don’t have an apartment in Southie.”
“You have whatever you want, Dora,” Victor said, his voice dropping into a low, earnest register. “This house, this city, my protection... or a fresh start anywhere in the world you want to go. My resources are yours.”
May you like
I looked at him—the most feared man in Boston, the mafia boss who had risked an empire because a girl in a cheap polyester uniform had once stitched his side with fishing line in an alley.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I said, a slow smile touching my lips. “I think I like it here.”
