Chapter 7
By midnight, the sprawling Carter estate on the outskirts of the city had been transformed from a luxurious residence into an impenetrable military command center. Heavily armed guards patrolled the perimeter, their silhouettes moving steadily against the bright security floodlights.
Inside the grand study, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the scent of aged bourbon. Roland stood at the head of a massive mahogany table, uncharacteristically without his suit jacket, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. Gathered around the table were his five most trusted capos—hardened, ruthless men who had served the Carter family for decades.
"The Hayes family has mobilized," reported Vincent, a tall, imposing man with a scar running down his fair cheek. "They’ve pulled their men off the streets and fortified their main compounds. Word is, Michael has two broken ribs and a shattered collarbone. Jessica is claiming you tried to assassinate them."
"Let them claim whatever they want," Roland dismissed, leaning his hands on the heavy table. "I want to know where they are vulnerable right now. Tonight."
"Their main cash flow comes through the illegal casinos down by the river, Boss," another capo, Marcus, chimed in. "They keep a skeleton crew on Tuesday nights. If we hit the counting rooms, we can cripple their liquidity before the sun comes up."
"Do it," Roland commanded without hesitation. "I don't want any casualties unless they fire first. Just burn the cash. Take the ledgers. I want Michael to wake up tomorrow morning unable to pay his own men."
Suddenly, the secure landline sitting on Roland’s desk began to ring. It was a heavy, encrypted rotary phone used only for communications between the heads of the five families.
The room went dead silent. The capos looked at Roland.
Roland walked over to the desk and picked up the heavy receiver. "Speak."
"Roland," a raspy, ancient voice crackled through the line. It was Salvatore Hayes, Michael’s uncle and the true, aging patriarch of the Hayes family. "You made a very large mess in my ballroom tonight."
"Your nephew put his hands on my daughter, Salvatore," Roland replied, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "And your sister-in-law assaulted my grandchildren. Be thankful I only used a silver platter and not a bullet."
"They are young. They are foolish," Salvatore wheezed, attempting to play the diplomat. "We can settle this. I will force Michael to publicly apologize. I will offer a significant tax on the port shipments for the next six months as restitution. We do not need a war over a spilled bowl of soup, Roland."
"It was never about the soup," Roland said coldly. "It was about the disrespect. You thought you could break my daughter and I would look the other way for a percentage of the ports."
"Roland, be reasonable. A war will bleed us both dry," Salvatore warned, his tone hardening.
"I have plenty of blood to spare," Roland stated, his eyes locking onto the framed photograph of Emily and the girls on his desk. "Your nephew broke the truce. The only negotiation I am willing to entertain is the location of Michael's funeral."
May you like
Roland slammed the heavy receiver down, severing the connection. He turned back to his capos, the absolute authority radiating from him like heat from a furnace.
"The time for talking is over," Roland ordered. "Burn the casinos. And find me the architects who built Michael’s private estate. I want to know every entrance, every exit, and every blind spot."
