Chapter 10 - The Settlement of Accounts and the New Dawn in Westchester
The federal raid on the DeLuca estate was swift, clinical, and absolute.
Within thirty minutes, Frank Marcone and his inner circle were handcuffed, shoved into the back of an armored transport van, and driven off toward a maximum-security holding facility in Manhattan, leaving behind a shattered Brooklyn syndicate and a completely restructured eastern seaboard.
Back in the grand courtyard, the amber carriage lamps still cast a warm, steady glow over the mahogany dining table.
Roman stood alone by the stone balustrade, looking out over the misty Westchester lawns where the charred skeleton of the old garden shed was barely visible in the distance.
Footsteps echoed softly across the flagstones behind him.
Nora Ellis walked out into the cool night air, wearing her new executive blazer and trousers, holding two steaming mugs of black coffee.
She handed one to Roman, standing beside him at the edge of the terrace.
“They took Marcone away ten minutes ago,” Nora said quietly, blowing gently across the surface of her coffee.
“Arthur says the federal indictments span four states. The Brooklyn family is effectively finished.”
Roman took a sip of the hot coffee, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.
“Good,” he replied simply.
“New York has needed a thorough housecleaning for years.”
He turned his head to look at her, the harsh lines of his face softening in the amber light.
“And how is Maisie?”
“Sleeping like an angel,” Nora smiled faintly, shaking her head.
“Though she woke up briefly to ask if Mr. Roman was still playing hide-and-seek with the sparkies. I told her you won the game.”
Roman let out a low, genuine laugh—a sound so rare and light that it seemed to banish the last lingering shadows of the syndicate war.
“Tell her I never lose at hide-and-seek,” Roman murmured.
He reached out, his bandaged fingers gently covering her hand where she held her coffee mug.
“You don't have to worry about security anymore, Nora,” Roman said, his voice dropping into that deep, intimate register that made the rest of the world fade away.
“The west wing is yours. Your salary is secured for life. And nobody—from Brooklyn, Milan, or anywhere else—will ever set foot on this estate again without my personal permission.”
Nora looked up into his dark, unwavering eyes, seeing not the terrifying mafia boss of Westchester County, but the man who had stood beside her in a burning shed, fighting a wall of fire with a garden hose to protect a three-year-old child.
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“I know, Roman,” she whispered, leaning slightly into his side.
“I know.”
