Chapter 4 - The Staten Island Gathering
The Moretti estate in Todt Hill, Staten Island, was a sprawling neo-Italianate mansion surrounded by wrought-iron fences, security cameras, and eighteen acres of private woodland.
Inside the grand dining room, beneath a hand-cut Venetian crystal chandelier, Don Domenico Moretti sat at the head of a mahogany table laid with roasted lamb, aged Barolo, and fine cigars. Surrounding him were seven senior lieutenants and two corrupt high-ranking officials from the Port Authority.
Domenico was a heavy man of sixty-five, with slicked-back white hair, a gold pinky ring, and a face carved from years of ruthless greed. He was laughing, tossing a piece of bread to his two Neapolitan Mastiffs resting by the marble hearth.
"To the future of the five boroughs," Domenico toasted, raising his heavy crystal glass. "Without Lorenzo Duca’s legal team sniffing through our shipping manifests!"
The men around the table laughed, clinking their glasses together.
"Are we sure the news is contained, Don Domenico?" asked one of his lieutenants, a nervous man named Frank. "It’s been four hours since the party. There’s nothing on the local news. No sirens, no fire trucks reported near the Duca estate."
Domenico waved his hand dismissively, taking a long drag from his Cohiba cigar.
"Lorenzo’s legal team controlled the press," Domenico sneered. "They’re trying to secure their offshore accounts before the market opens on Monday. Viktor Vance is a professional. He used three pounds of military C4. There is nothing left of Lorenzo Duca or his brat but marble dust."
Suddenly, the lights in the dining room flickered once, twice, and went completely dark.
The ambient hum of the estate’s massive central heating system died instantly. The only light remaining in the room came from the flickering fire in the hearth and the gentle glow of the rain outside the high arched windows.
The two Neapolitan Mastiffs stood up simultaneously, their low, guttural growls echoing through the dark room.
"What the hell is that?" Domenico barked, dropping his cigar onto his plate. "Frank, check the backup generators!"
Frank stood up, pulling a silver revolver from his armpit holster. But before he could take three steps toward the door, the heavy oak double doors of the dining room exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and torn hinges.
Flashbang grenades bounced across the polished marble floor, detonating with deafening cracks and blinding white light.
The room erupted into absolute chaos.
Men screamed, furniture overturned, and the sharp, rhythmic thunder of silenced automatic weapons tore through the room. Domenico’s guards fired blindly into the smoke, their bullets shattering the crystal chandelier, sending thousands of sparkling glass shards raining down onto the dinner table.
Within forty seconds, the gunfire stopped.
The heavy smoke drifted toward the open windows, illuminated by the red glow of emergency tactical lights.
Every single one of Domenico’s lieutenants was on the floor, disarmed, wounded, or unconscious. The two corrupt Port Authority officials were cowering beneath the overturned mahogany table, hyperventilating in sheer terror.
From the hallway, surrounded by four dark-clad tactical operatives holding suppressed rifles, walked Lorenzo Duca.
He was immaculate. His dark coat was dry, his hair combed back, his eyes steady and cold. In his hand, he carried a small, heavy black leather case.
Domenico Moretti was crawling backward against the marble hearth, his face twisted in horror, his hands trembling as he stared at the ghost standing before him.
"You..." Domenico wheezed, his heart hammering against his ribs. "You were... Viktor said..."
"Viktor is currently floating in the East River, Domenico," Lorenzo said calmly, his voice ringing through the ruined room like a funeral bell. "He was a professional, but he made one mistake. He assumed a three-year-old child wouldn't notice a stranger in the service hallway."
Lorenzo stepped over an overturned chair, stopping two feet from where Domenico cowered against the fireplace.
"You tried to murder my daughter," Lorenzo whispered, dropping the black leather case onto Domenico’s lap.
Domenico looked down with trembling hands. He unzipped the case.
Inside sat the small black box with the red light—the very bomb Viktor Vance had planted inside Isabella’s wooden birthday cabinet. The timer on the digital face had been reset. It read: 00:15.
And the numbers were counting down.
00:14... 00:13... 00:12...
Domenico let out a blood-curdling shriek, trying to kick the case away, but Lorenzo set his heavy boot firmly onto Domenico’s knee, pinning him to the hearth.
"Lorenzo! Please! Mercì! For the sake of your father!" Domenico screamed, his face white as snow, urine soaking through his trousers. "I’ll give you everything! The docks! The casinos! The union contracts! Just turn it off!"
00:08... 00:07... 00:06...
Lorenzo reached down, casually sliding his thumb across the master toggle switch on the side of the box.
The red light turned off. The digital display went black at 00:02.
Domenico collapsed against the brickwork, panting heavily, tears of absolute terror streaming down his face.
Lorenzo bent down, leaning close to the old man's ear.
"I am not going to blow you up, Domenico," Lorenzo said softly. "That would be clean. That would be quick. Instead, you are going to sign a full confession detailing every bribery payment, every murder order, and every illegal contract you have issued for the last twenty years. You will give it to the Federal District Attorney tomorrow morning."
Domenico looked up, his voice cracking. "If I do that... I’ll spend the rest of my life in maximum security!"
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"Yes," Lorenzo replied, standing tall and buttoning his coat. "You will live in a concrete box six feet wide. And every single day, when you look at the white ceiling, you will thank God that Lorenzo Duca let you breathe."
Lorenzo turned to Mateo. "Clear the house. Hand the survivors to the federal authorities. The Moretti family no longer exists in New York."
