Chapter 7 - The Cleansing of Mulberry Street
The execution of the old guard was not an overnight affair; it was a systematic, legal and structural dismantling that took three weeks to complete.
By the first week of November, Logan Marchetti sat in the leather chair of the central office on Mulberry Street, the heavy oak desk clear of everything except a single glass of Scotch and a stack of corporate relocation documents. On the wall behind him, the old portrait of Vincent had been removed, replaced by a simple, framed pencil drawing of Greystone Manor—the one Luna had drawn during her first week at the Bedford safehouse.
"Vincent is currently in the medical ward at Rikers Island," Marcus said, entering the room with his usual quiet precision. He had traded his tactical gear for a clean, tailored gray suit. "The district attorney used the microfilm from your father’s tin to secure a non-bailable indictment for first-degree murder, racketeering, and corporate fraud. The feds are estimating he’ll get three consecutive life terms before he even hits the federal penitentiary in Colorado."
Logan took a slow sip of his Scotch, his gray eyes fixing on the window that looked out over the bustling streets of Little Italy below. "And the captains?"
"Tommy Bruno took early retirement," Marcus replied, checking his tablet. "He’s transferred his distribution shares to his son, who has already agreed to the new corporate structure. The logistics yards are officially registered as an international shipping firm now, Logan. The union contracts are clean. The protection taxes have been completely eliminated from the West Side sectors."
Logan stood up, pulling his dark overcoat on over his shoulders. "Where are the girls?"
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"They’re at the new property in Rhinebeck," Marcus smiled, his face softening for the first time in a month. "Iris and Callum Voss sent over a private security detail from Chicago to assist with the transition. The estate is secure, Boss. No gates, no high walls—just fifty acres of apple orchards and the river."
"Let’s go home, Marcus," Logan said, his voice carrying a lightness that had been absent from his chest since he was twenty-nine years old. "I’ve spent eight years in this cellar. It’s time to see the sun."
