Chapter 6 - The Moretti Ambush
Julian Moretti smiled, a cold, razor-thin expression that lacked any warmth. He was a ruthless, ambitious lieutenant in the Moretti crime syndicate—a man who had spent a decade trying to seize control of the Boston waterfront.
“Julian,” Rocco said, his tone remaining completely calm despite the four submachine guns trained directly on his chest. “What is a Moretti doing in a private doctor’s office?”
“Your mother called my father last night, Rocco,” Julian said, stepping into the room and leaning against the mahogany desk. “She was quite frantic. She told us that her son had gone mad—that he was threatening to destroy the family enterprise over a common girl and three bastard children.”
Rocco’s eyes narrowed into slits. “My mother sold me out to the Morettis.”
“Not sold out,” Julian corrected smoothly. “A business transaction. Beatrice offered us fifty percent of the Duca container terminals in South Boston if we helped her 'resolve' this minor family dispute. She wants the children delivered to her estate in Beacon Hill. And as for you, Rocco…”
Julian pulled a silenced pistol from his coat pocket, weighing it in his hand.
“…she gave us permission to put you in a wheelchair if you refused to cooperate. She figures a paraplegic CEO is easier to control than a rebellious one.”
Rocco stood beside the desk, his body completely relaxed—the posture of a apex predator calculating the exact distance between himself and his prey.
“My mother always was a terrible judge of loyalty,” Rocco said quietly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Julian scoffed.
“It means,” Rocco said, looking past Julian toward the hallway ceiling, “that you forgot to check who owns the security grid in this building.”
BOOM.
The overhead fire sprinklers suddenly detonated, showering the room in a deafening spray of high-pressure water and chemical foam. Simultaneously, the lights vanished, plunging the office into pitch-black darkness.
Before the Moretti guards could react, Rocco moved.
He grabbed the heavy brass lamp on the desk, swinging it with brutal force into the nearest gunman, knocking him unconscious. He grabbed the fallen guard’s weapon, dropping to one knee, and fired three precise shots into the dark.
Shouts and gunfire shattered the quiet clinic as muzzle flashes illuminated the hallway.
Vitale, who had been waiting in the security grid room, burst through the side entrance, engaging the remaining guards from behind. Within forty-five seconds, the firefight was over.
Julian Moretti was pinned against the wall, bleeding from a shoulder wound, staring in horror as Rocco stepped out of the water spray, completely dry under his heavy trench coat, holding the black binders tightly under his arm.
Rocco walked up to Julian, pressing the cold barrel of his pistol against the side of Julian’s head.
May you like
“Tell your father,” Rocco whispered, his voice cutting through the sound of rushing water, “that if a single Moretti soldier steps within five miles of my wife or my children, I won't just take your docks. I will erase your family name from this city.”
Rocco pulled the trigger—hitting the wall an inch from Julian’s ear, leaving the rival lieutenant whimpering on the wet carpet—and walked out into the snowstorm.
