Chapter 8
The word Moretti hung over the manicured lawn like a cloud of poison gas.
For thirty years, an uneasy, heavily armed ceasefire had existed between the DeLucas of New York and the Morettis of Chicago. The boundary lines along the Ohio River were carved in stone, paid for with the lives of fifty men during the winter wars of the nineteen-nineties. If the Rourkes had invited Chicago across the state line, this was no longer a domestic rebellion—it was the opening salvo of a continental syndicate war.
Arthur leaned forward on the bench, his knuckles whitening over his knees, his jaw tightening with an ancient, terrifying fury. "The Morettis... In my harbor? On my birthday?"
"They aren't in your harbor yet, Father," Valeria said, her voice remaining preternaturally calm, though a dangerous fire ignited in her slate-grey eyes.
She turned to Marco. "Where is the freighter currently holding?"
"Two miles off Sandy Hook, Don Valeria," Marco answered instantly, tapping his encrypted tablet. "Awaiting the green light from Declan’s radio frequency to enter the channel."
Valeria walked over to where Declan sat slumped against the birch tree. She reached down, took him by the lapels of his torn silk jacket, and hauled him upright with astonishing physical strength, shoving his back hard against the rough bark.
"You brought Chicago into my house, Declan," Valeria whispered, every syllable dropping like an executioner’s axe. "You brought wolves to my father's lawn."
"It was... it was business, Valeria," Declan gasped, spitting crimson against the grass. "Chicago offered us fifty percent of the eastern seaboard! They said you were too soft to hold the ports! They said your time was done!"
"My time," Valeria murmured, her lips parting in a faint, devastating smile, "is whatever I decide it is."
She reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved his tactical satellite radio, and held it in front of his face.
"Call the freighter, Declan," she commanded.
"What?" Declan stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "If I call them off, Don Moretti will have me flayed alive!"
"If you don't call them," Valeria said, her voice dropping into a register so cold that Camille let out a fresh whimper on the grass, "I will have Marco take you down to the cellar right now. And you will discover that Don Moretti is remarkably gentle compared to me."
Declan stared into her unblinking, pitiless eyes. He saw no mercy, no hesitation, no crack in the armor.
With trembling fingers, Declan took the radio, keyed the encrypted channel, and brought the receiver to his mouth.
"Vanguard One, this is Rourke," Declan rasped, his voice shaking uncontrollably. "Abort the approach. Repeat, abort the approach. The harbor is compromised. Turn the vessel around."
A heavy pause lingered on the radio, filled with static and the distant thrum of heavy diesel engines, before a cold voice responded: "Understood, Rourke. But Don Moretti will want an explanation for the delay. You have until midnight."
The line went dead.
Valeria took the radio from his hand and crushed it beneath the heel of her shoe, shattering the plastic and circuitry into the turf.
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"Take them to the sub-level holding cells beneath the carriage house," Valeria ordered her guards. "Strip their shoes, their phones, and their jewelry. Lock them in separate rooms. If either of them speaks, gag them."
Two guards seized Declan by the arms, dragging him across the grass, while two more hauled Camille screaming and weeping toward the service path. Within sixty seconds, the lawn was clear of the Rourkes, leaving only the crushed gardenias, the fallen floral screen, and the ruined cake.
