Chapter 9
The circular driveway in front of the Bellaforte mansion was illuminated by the crisp, white beams of high-intensity halogen lanterns mounted along the stone portico. The night air was chilly, carrying the scent of pine needles and damp earth from the surrounding woods.
Antonio Bellaforte stood at the top of the grand limestone stairs, his hands resting easily in the pockets of his tailored trousers, his unbuttoned vest catching the breeze. Behind him stood Sal, Marco, and twenty heavily armed Bellaforte soldiers in dark overcoats, their suppressed assault carbines held at the low ready.
Three black armored Suburbans crested the private driveway, tires crunching aggressively over the white gravel before coming to a synchronized halt fifty feet from the steps.
The vehicle doors flew open in unison.
Twelve men in dark tactical windbreakers and ballistic vests spilled out onto the gravel, raising automatic weapons, immediately fanning out into a defensive perimeter.
From the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle stepped Paulie Morello.
At forty-two, Chicago’s most ruthless enforcer was broad-shouldered, thick-necked, wearing an expensive leather coat, dark sunglasses pushed up onto his shaved head, a heavy silver chain visible against his throat. His fair, ruddy face was split into an arrogant, predatory grin as he looked up at the quiet mansion.
"Good evening, Don Bellaforte!" Paulie’s Midwestern drawl boomed across the empty courtyard. "I hope we aren't interrupting dessert! Damian called us two hours ago and told us the paperwork was signed!"
Antonio did not take cover. He took two slow, measured steps down the limestone stairs, his leather shoes clicking with heavy, absolute authority against the stone.
"Damian is currently indisposed, Paulie," Antonio replied, his deep, raspy voice carrying effortlessly across the gravel. "He had an unexpected change in his retirement plans."
Paulie’s grin faltered slightly. His eyes darted to the dark windows of the second floor, noting the absolute absence of movement.
"What does that mean, Antonio?" Paulie asked, his tone hardening, his right hand drifting toward the weapon beneath his leather coat. "We have a signed commercial agreement with the Bellaforte syndicate. Twenty million dollars was wired to our escrow account at five o'clock. The northern maritime berths belong to Chicago."
"The northern maritime berths belong to my son, Paulie," Antonio said softly, every word separated by that terrifying, rhythmic pause. "And my son does not do business with thieves."
Paulie scoffed, motioning with his fingers to the four mercenaries behind him. "Look around you, Antonio. You have twenty men on this porch. We have sixty more staged in Newark with heavy armor and RPGs. If I don't send a confirmation signal from this courtyard in five minutes, my crews will burn your shipping terminals from Brooklyn to Staten Island."
Antonio let out a low, dry chuckle that sent a shiver straight down Paulie’s spine.
"Your crews in Newark will not be burning anything tonight, Paulie," Antonio murmured, pulling an encrypted satellite tablet from his vest pocket and tapping the screen once.
He turned the display toward the Chicago enforcer.
On the screen was a live, high-definition thermal surveillance feed from the industrial warehouse park in Newark.
Four tactical transport trucks were completely engulfed in flames, surrounded by fifty heavily armed men in dark tactical windbreakers bearing the official crest of the Five Families Commission. Over thirty Chicago mercenaries were lying face-down on the wet asphalt, their hands bound with heavy industrial zip-ties.
Paulie’s breath caught in his throat. The color drained from his ruddy face so fast he looked as though he had been struck by lightning.
May you like
"What... what is that?" Paulie stammered, taking an involuntary step back toward his vehicle.
"That," Antonio explained, his voice as smooth and terrifying as deep water, "is the Commission's response to an unauthorized interstate incursion. Don Castiglione and Don Moretti in New York approved the strike forty minutes ago. Your sixty men in Newark are currently in federal holding or in the morgue, Paulie. You are standing on my gravel entirely alone."
