Chapter 8 - The Betrayal of Brighton Beach
The attack on the upstate safehouse happened at midnight, less than two hours after the Commission meeting adjourned.
Arban Hoxha hadn't waited for the sunrise; he had mobilized a force of forty heavily armed mercenaries, launching a desperate, suicidal assault on the Romano compound. They had breached the outer gates with an armored truck, expecting to find four helpless children and an elite but overwhelmed guard detail.
What Arban didn't know was that Dominic Romano had never intended to hide his children there.
The upstate safehouse was an empty decoy, lined with remote-activated claymore mines and automated defense turrets. The moment Arban’s men rushed through the shattered front doors, Marco activated the perimeter sequence from a command center five miles away.
The explosion was visible from the highway—a massive, brilliant white flash that leveled the compound in a fraction of a second, erasing Arban’s mercenaries from the earth in a single, catastrophic stroke.
But Arban himself hadn't been in the truck. He had remained in Brighton Beach, waiting at his primary stronghold—a heavily fortified nightclub called The Golden Eagle—ready to receive the children as hostages.
At 2:00 a.m., a fleet of black Romano SUVs surrounded the nightclub.
Dominic and Meline stepped out together, both of them dressed in dark tactical gear, their faces grim and unyielding. They didn't bring a large force; they didn't need one. Arban’s empire had been completely hollowed out in less than three hours.
They kicked open the front doors of the club, the heavy bass of the electronic music still thrumming through the empty, flashing dance floor. Standing by the bar, a bottle of vodka in his hand and his face pale with the realization of his total destruction, was Arban Hoxha.
Beside him stood Frank Rossi, weeping openly as he held a small, trembling pistol to his own temple, realizing that there was no corner of the earth left where Dominic Romano wouldn't find him.
"It’s over, Arban," Dominic said, walking down the center aisle of the club, his assault rifle lowered but ready. "Your men are dead. Your assets are seized. Your family in Albania has already disowned you to protect their shipping licenses."
Arban let out a dry, rattling laugh, dropping the vodka bottle onto the floor, the glass shattering against the tile. "You think you’re a king, Romano? You’re just a man who married a broken woman because you were too scared of a real wife."
Meline stepped forward, passing Dominic, her dark eyes fixed on the man who had tried to break her. In her hand, she held a sleek, silver pistol—the same one she had used to guard the playroom weeks ago.
"He didn't marry me because he was scared, Arban," Meline said, her voice dropping to a deadly, resonant whisper that cut through the music.
"He married me because he knew that a woman who has nothing left to lose will do whatever it takes to protect the people she loves. You thought I was a prize to be won. You thought I was a barren piece of meat. But I am the mother of the Romano family. And this is my house."
She raised the pistol, her arm perfectly steady, and fired once.
The bullet caught Arban right between his eyes, his massive body crashing backward into the mirrored bar, a shower of glittering glass falling over his lifeless form like a shroud.
Frank Rossi shrieked, dropping his weapon and falling to his knees, begging for his life as he crawled toward Meline’s boots. "Meline! Please! I’m your father! I gave you everything! I protected you for twenty-three years!"
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Meline looked down at the man who had sold her, her face an unreadable mask of absolute detachment. She didn't raise her weapon. She didn't offer a single word of anger.
"Marco," she called out, turning her back on him. "Take him to the docks. Give him a ticket to a cargo ship heading to the furthest corner of the world. If he ever sets foot in this country again, don't call my husband. Call me."
