Chapter 4
The grandfather clock in Salvatore’s private library struck midnight with deep, resonant chimes. The room smelled of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and gun oil. Behind the massive mahogany desk, Salvatore sat reviewing a stack of property deeds and shipping manifests, the amber desk lamp casting sharp shadows across his angular, handsome face.
Across from him sat Franco and two senior capos, their faces grim under the dim light.
A secure satellite phone on the desk began to buzz, vibrating violently across the polished wood.
Salvatore let it ring four times before extending his hand. He tapped the speakerphone button with the edge of his signet ring.
"Speak," Salvatore said calmly.
A harsh, gravelly voice broke through the static, thick with a Brooklyn rasp. "Salvatore. You made a mess at the conservatory today."
"Victor," Salvatore replied, leaning back in his leather executive chair. "I was wondering when the head of the house would call. I assumed you were busy buying your son a new set of teeth."
"Ryan made a mistake," Victor Hale snapped, his tone hard, defensive, and unyielding. "A domestic squabble between young people. It didn't require you breaking his ribs and tossing my wife across a marble floor in front of half the Commission."
"Your wife put her hands on my pregnant daughter, Victor," Salvatore said, his voice dropping an octave, each word spaced with surgical precision. "Your son put bruises on her ribs. In my world, that is not a domestic squabble. That is an act of war."
"She is a Hale by law!" Victor snarled. "She took the vows! The child she carries is the legitimate heir to the Hale transport network! You took her from our territory without a council vote, Salvatore. That makes you a violator of the five-family treaty."
Salvatore let out a low, humorless chuckle that sent a shiver through the capos standing in the room.
"You want to talk about treaties, Victor?" Salvatore murmured softly. "Three weeks ago, an offshore account in the Caymans registered to your holding company transferred four million dollars to the Valenti syndicate in Chicago. You were buying heavy weapons, Victor. You were preparing to move on my Brooklyn terminals the moment Emily gave birth."
The line went completely dead on Victor’s end for three long seconds.
"You've been reading my mail," Victor said, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous register.
"I write the mail in this city, Victor," Salvatore answered. "You thought you could breed my daughter like cattle, take the child as a shield, and use Chicago’s muscle to push me out of the harbor. You are an arrogant, mediocre man who raised a cowardly dog."
"Send her back, Salvatore," Victor warned, his tone trembling with suppressed rage. "Send Emily back to her marital home by sunrise, or the Commission will sanction an open contract on every Moretti soldier walking the streets."
Salvatore leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his eyes narrowing into cold obsidian.
"If I see Ryan, Linda, or any man carrying your name within ten miles of my daughter," Salvatore whispered into the receiver, "I will not call the Commission. I will put your son in a concrete barrel and roll him into the East River while you watch. Do you understand me, Victor?"
Before Victor could answer, Salvatore tapped the screen, cutting the connection.
He looked up at Franco. "Where is Geno?"
Franco’s eyes darkened. "In the basement, Boss. We picked him up at the airport trying to board a flight to Miami."
May you like
Salvatore stood up, fastening the middle button of his tailored suit vest.
"Bring my coat," Salvatore said. "Let us find out how much my son-in-law paid to blind my own security."
