Chapter 5
The wine cellar beneath the Moretti compound was carved from nineteenth-century bedrock. The air was frigid, smelling of damp stone, sulfur, and copper. In the center of the room, tied to a heavy steel chair bolted to the floor, sat Geno—a thirty-year-old soldier who had served as Emily’s personal bodyguard for eighteen months.
His nose was broken, blood staining the collar of his white polo shirt, his fair skin bruised and swollen under the single incandescent bulb hanging from the rafters.
The heavy iron door swung open, its hinges groaning in the damp air.
Salvatore descended the stone steps, his polished dress shoes clicking in slow, rhythmic cadence against the flagstones. He didn't carry a weapon. He wore his tailored overcoat draped over his shoulders, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets.
Geno looked up, his bloodshot eyes widening in absolute terror. "Don Moretti... please. Boss, I swear to God, I had no choice!"
Salvatore stopped three feet in front of him. He looked down at the traitor with the cold detachment of a surgeon examining a tumor.
"You had a choice every single morning, Geno," Salvatore said softly. His baritone was quiet, calm, and terrifyingly measured. "When my daughter woke up with finger marks on her wrists, you had a choice. When she cried behind closed doors, you had a choice."
"Ryan... Ryan said he would kill my mother, Boss!" Geno sobbed, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "He knew where she lived in Queens! He told me if I sent a single report to your desk, he’d have his father’s crew burn her house down!"
"And the two hundred thousand dollars wired to your bank in Jersey last Tuesday?" Salvatore asked, tilting his head slightly. "Did Ryan threaten you with that as well?"
Geno’s breath hitched in his throat. He went completely still, his jaw trembling.
Salvatore pulled a pair of dark leather gloves from his pocket and slipped them over his fingers, smoothing the seams with mechanical precision.
"You sold my daughter's safety for the price of a mid-town apartment, Geno," Salvatore murmured. "You watched a coward strike a pregnant woman, and you checked your watch and counted your money."
"Boss! Forgive me! I’ll tell you everything!" Geno shrieked, thrashing against the ropes. "Victor has thirty men staged at the old ironworks in Newark! They’re meeting with Chicago’s liaison tonight! They’re planning an extraction—they know you brought Dr. Bennett to the house, and they’re planning to intercept her medical transport when she goes for the ultrasound in the city!"
Salvatore paused, his eyes narrowing. "An ultrasound?"
"Dr. Bennett’s clinic on 68th Street," Geno gasped, desperate to buy his life. "The appointment was pre-booked two weeks ago under her married name! Ryan has the schedule! He told Chicago they could take her in the parking garage before she reaches the lobby!"
Salvatore looked at Franco, who stood near the door with his arms crossed.
"Check Dr. Bennett’s private calendar," Salvatore commanded quietly.
Franco pulled out a secure tablet, swiped the screen, and nodded grimly. "Tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, Boss. High-resolution fetal scan. It requires specialized machinery Bennett doesn't keep in his field bag."
Salvatore looked back down at Geno. He reached out and gently patted the traitor’s bloody cheek with a gloved hand.
"Thank you, Geno," Salvatore said softly. "You have been very helpful."
"Does that mean... I can go, Boss? You'll let me leave the state?"
Salvatore turned on his heel and began walking up the stone stairs, his coat billowing behind him.
"Franco," Salvatore said without looking back.
"Yes, Don Moretti?"
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"Make sure his mother in Queens is moved to a comfortable apartment in Brooklyn," Salvatore instructed. "And then take out the trash."
Behind him, Geno’s screams echoed against the bedrock, cut short by the heavy thud of the iron door closing.
