Chapter 9
The fire consumed the last of the Chicago bonds, leaving a charred black circle on the polished marble floor.
Rocco stood tall amid the smoke, his dark three-piece suit unruffled, his hands resting easily in his trouser pockets. He looked at Morello’s four bodyguards.
"Drop your weapons onto the floor," Rocco commanded, his voice barely louder than a whisper, yet carrying the absolute weight of an executioner's gavel.
The four operatives didn't hesitate. They unholstered their semi-automatics, letting them clatter loudly across the stone, raising their hands in total surrender.
"Frank," Rocco said.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Escort Mr. Morello and his men to the Holland Tunnel," Rocco ordered, his cold gaze drilling into Marcus’s skull. "Put them on the highway to Chicago. If any vehicle bearing a Morello crest is spotted east of the Delaware River before the year is out, execute every occupant on sight."
Morello swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he backed toward the entrance. "The Commission will hear about this, Rocco. You burned five million of syndicate capital."
"Tell the Commission to come collect it from me in person, Marcus," Rocco whispered, a razor-thin smile touching his lips. "I’ll be sitting right here."
Morello and his men were shoved out the heavy bronze doors by six armed soldiers, their retreating footsteps echoing in frantic, humiliated haste.
Now, only Dominic remained in the center of the lobby.
The twenty-six-year-old nephew sat strapped to the iron chair, weeping openly, his fair skin splotched with tears, sweat, and dried blood.
"Uncle Rocco... please," Dominic wept, his voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria. "I'm your blood! I'm your brother's only son! You promised my father on his deathbed that you would protect me!"
Rocco walked slowly around the bound chair. His polished leather shoes clicked with heavy, rhythmic cadence against the stone.
"My brother died fighting rival soldiers in Brooklyn, Dominic," Rocco said softly, stopping directly in front of him. "He was a man of honor. He died with his boots on, protecting this family."
Rocco reached down, took Dominic’s chin in his calloused, tattooed hand, and forced the young man to look up into his terrifying gray eyes.
"You are not your father, Dominic," Rocco continued, every syllable carved from stone. "You are a coward who hits three-year-old girls and sells his family's heritage to outsiders for thirty pieces of silver."
"Don't kill me!" Dominic shrieked, wetting himself in the chair. "Please, God, don't kill me!"
Rocco released his chin with a flick of his wrist that sent Dominic’s head snapping back.
"I am not going to kill you, Dominic," Rocco said, his voice flat and dead. "Death is for men. For parasites, there is only erasure."
Rocco turned to Frank.
"Strip him of his passport, his credit cards, and his luxury watch," Rocco commanded. "Put him on a cargo freighter bound for South America. Unregistered. He will work the engine room until he reaches Valparaíso. He is never to speak the name Castellano again. If he ever steps foot on North American soil, feed him to the harbor."
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"No! Uncle Rocco, no!" Dominic screamed, thrashing wildly as two enforcers cut the zip-ties from the chair and hauled him backward across the marble floor. "Please! Send me to a farm! Send me to New Jersey! Not South America!"
His frantic wails echoed off the high glass ceiling before fading down the service corridor as the heavy steel doors slammed shut with finality.
