Chapter 6
The lower tack room beneath the south grandstand smelled of aged saddle soap, oiled bridle leather, and damp stone. A single incandescent bulb hung from a bare wire overhead, casting harsh, yellow-white shadows across the concrete walls.
Marcus was strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room, his wrists bound with heavy plastic zip-ties. His face was a mask of swollen purple bruises, blood crusted along his chin. In the corner, Ramona sat slumped on a stack of feed bags, her manicured hands bound behind her back, shivering uncontrollably as two armed bodyguards stood over her.
The heavy iron door groaned open.
Lorenzo stepped into the room, flanked by Frank. He had removed his suit jacket, folding it neatly over the back of an empty saddle rack. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the cuffs rolled back to his forearms to reveal the dark scars from gunshots he had taken thirty years ago.
"Leave us, Frank," Lorenzo said quietly. "Keep the hallway clear."
"Yes, Boss," Frank said, stepping outside and pulling the iron door shut until the heavy latch engaged with a resounding thud.
Lorenzo dragged a low wooden stool across the concrete floor, the metal legs shrieking against the stone, and sat down three feet from Marcus. He placed an encrypted satellite phone on the barrel of his knee—the phone Frank had retrieved from Marcus’s suit pocket.
"The Morettis wired four million dollars into a shell company registered under your wife’s maiden name this morning, Marcus," Lorenzo began, his voice chillingly conversational. "They promised you the northern routes, and they promised Ramona the trust seat in Manhattan. Did you really think Carmine Moretti would let you live once the ink was dry?"
Marcus spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the floor, his swollen eye twitching. "Carmine... Carmine gave his word before the Commission elders. He said you were getting soft, Lorenzo. Spending your time at polo matches with a trophy wife and a toddler while the ports were bleeding revenue!"
"My revenue doubled this quarter, Marcus," Lorenzo replied softly. "You would know that if you spent less time in the high-stakes rooms at Foxwoods and more time checking the manifests."
Suddenly, the satellite phone on Lorenzo’s knee began to vibrate. The screen lit up in vivid white letters: UNKNOWN CALLER - ENCRYPTED.
Lorenzo picked up the device, flicking the speaker button with his thumb. He did not say a word.
A rough, gravelly voice with a thick Brooklyn accent echoed through the small tack room:
"Marcus? Is the package secured? My vanguard is entering the northern service gate right now. Tell me the girl is in the car."
Marcus opened his mouth to scream a warning, but Lorenzo’s hand shot forward like lightning. His calloused fingers clamped down over Marcus’s throat with hydraulic pressure, cutting off the man’s vocal cords in a choked wheeze.
Lorenzo brought the phone to his own lips.
"Carmine," Lorenzo said, his voice as smooth and terrifying as deep water. "The package is with her mother. But you are more than welcome to come onto my property and try to collect it yourself."
A suffocating silence hung on the other end of the line before the caller let out a sharp, ragged breath.
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"Carbone..." Carmine Moretti rasped. "You're supposed to be pinned down at the luncheon."
"I am at the luncheon, Carmine," Lorenzo whispered, his pauses deliberate, lethal. "And your men are walking straight into a slaughterhouse."
