Chapter 6 - The Trial in the Basement
The sublevel holding area beneath the Watch Hill estate was built like a subterranean bunker—thick poured concrete walls, heavy iron doors, and a single fluorescent light strip buzzing overhead, casting harsh, pale shadows across the floor.
Danny Falcone was strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the main room, his face bruised, his lip split open and bleeding onto his white dress shirt.
Carmine Baldi stood over him, holding a heavy iron bar, while four armed guards stood along the perimeter wall with their hands resting on their holstered sidearms.
"Just sign the confession, Danny," Carmine sneered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Save us both the trouble. The federal prosecutors already have your name on the offshore wire transfers. Stefano is upstairs dying, and when he breathes his last, I take control of the family. You don't have to die here today if you just take the fall."
Danny spat blood onto Carmine’s shoes, raising his head with a cold, mocking grin. "You’re a dead man, Carmine. Stefano isn't going to die. And when he comes down those stairs, he’s going to skin you alive."
Carmine raised the iron bar, his face twisting into an ugly mask of rage. "Stefano is a cripple! He can barely draw breath through his shredded lung—"
BOOM.
The heavy steel reinforcement door at the top of the concrete stairs was blown off its hinges with a deafening crack.
Concrete dust and smoke erupted into the holding room. Before the echo of the explosion had even cleared, a massive dark shape launched through the cloud of dust.
Nero hit the nearest guard like a two-hundred-pound artillery shell.
The guard screamed as the mastiff’s bone-crushing jaws locked around his forearm, slamming his body against the concrete wall with terrifying force. The second guard reached for his weapon, but a single, lethal gunshot rang out through the smoke—BANG.
The second guard dropped instantly, a bullet hole drilled cleanly between his eyes.
Stefano Marquetti stepped through the settling dust. He was wearing his black wool coat, his right hand holding a customized heavy-caliber pistol, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, steady cycles. Beside him stood Alice Brennan, holding her trauma bag in one hand and an encrypted tablet in the other.
Carmine dropped the iron bar. It clattered uselessly against the stone floor. His face turned the color of ash as he backed away until his spine hit the far wall.
"Ste... Stefano..." Carmine stammered, his hands flying into the air. "Thank God! Danny... Danny was just about to confess! I was interrogating him—"
"Quiet, Carmine," Stefano said smoothly, walking into the center of the room with terrifying calm. He didn't raise his gun again. He simply let his right hand hang at his side.
Nero released the first guard, who lay groaning on the floor, and trotted back to Stefano’s hip, his blood-stained muzzle dripping onto the grey concrete.
"Alice," Stefano said softly. "Play the file."
Alice stepped forward, tapping the screen on her tablet.
Carmine’s own voice rang out through the high-definition speakers of the basement room, filling every corner with crystal-clear audio: "When the west wing goes up... put two rounds into his chest... Danny Falcone will be the dead traitor..."
The remaining two guards in the room looked at Carmine, then slowly stepped away from him, unholstering their weapons and lowering their barrels toward the floor.
Carmine’s knees shook so violently he nearly collapsed. "Stefano... please! The Morettis... they threatened my family! They told me they’d kill my daughter in New York if I didn't set the fire!"
Stefano stepped right up to Carmine, stopping three inches from his face. The aura of absolute, lethal authority radiating from the mob boss was so intense that even the air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
"You touched my house," Stefano whispered, his voice dropping into a register that made the blood run cold. "You tried to murder my dog. You framed my brother. And you lied to my face."
"Stefano, please!" Carmine sobbed, dropping to his knees, clutching at the hem of Stefano’s coat. "Mercy! For twenty years of service, give me mercy!"
Stefano looked down at the kneeling man with cold, unyielding contempt. He slowly turned his head to look at Alice, who was watching him from beside the door, her green eyes steady, unreadable.
"What do we do with traitors in your ER, Nurse Brennan?" Stefano asked softly.
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"We remove the infection," Alice replied, her voice firm and clear. "Before it kills the host."
Stefano smiled—a dark, lethal expression that lit up his eyes. He raised his weapon.
