Chapter 9 - The Annihilation of the Marcones
The retaliation was carried out before the sun could clear the Atlantic horizon. Dominic didn't send a warning, and he didn't call a commission meeting. The Marcone family had breached his home, they had endangered his children, and they had tried to take the woman who had healed his life. In the law of the New York underworld, that meant total erasure.
At 5:00 a.m., fifty elite Russo combatants, backed by three armored trucks, invaded the Marcone stronghold in Newark—a massive, fortified scrap yard and logistics hub that served as their primary counting house.
Dominic led the assault himself, his wounded shoulder wrapped tightly in black canvas, his face an unreadable mask of absolute, mechanical destruction. He moved through the yard like an executioner, his weapon clearing out the Marcone enforcers with lethal, terrifying precision.
By 6:00 a.m., old Don Marcone and Victor Hoxha were trapped inside the main office building, the structure surrounded by a wall of fire as the fuel tanks in the scrap yard exploded one by one.
Dominic kicked the heavy steel door open, stepping into the room alone.
Victor Hoxha, a cruel, handsome man with a scar across his lip, pulled a silver pistol, his hand shaking as he looked at the towering mob boss who had just decimated his entire family in an hour.
"Romano... listen to me," Victor stammered, backing toward the window. "The girl belongs to us! She stole our money! It’s a matter of honor—"
"She doesn't belong to you, Victor," Dominic said, his voice entirely flat, cold, and devoid of any human resonance.
"She belongs to the Russo name. She belongs to the three children who didn't speak for fourteen months until she gave them their voices back. You thought you were hunting a runaway housekeeper. You didn't realize you were trying to steal the queen of this city."
Dominic raised his rifle, firing three rapid shots that caught Victor in the chest, sending him crashing through the glass window onto the burning scrap metal below.
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Old Don Marcone sat behind his desk, his wrinkled hands raised in absolute surrender, his face white as ash. "Dominic... please. We didn't know she was with you. The money... she can keep the money. Just let me leave the state."
Dominic walked to the desk, leaning down until his shadow completely swallowed the old man. "You have twenty-four hours to sign over every shipping contract, every truck yard, and every warehouse in the state of New Jersey to the Russo syndicate. If I see your face or any of your remaining sons within five hundred miles of this city by tomorrow morning, my men won't use bullets. They will use the river. Get out of my sight."
