Chapter 6 - The Confession of Julian Cross and the New York Connection
The grandfather clock in the corner of the grand drawing room ticked away three agonizing seconds of absolute silence before Julian Cross completely unraveled.
The polished corporate veneer that had defined his career within the DeLuca syndicate evaporated, leaving behind a sweating, trembling man staring wildly at the ring of armed guards stationed around the perimeter of the room.
“I didn't want you dead, Roman!” Julian blurted out, his voice cracking with panic as he threw his hands up in a defensive gesture.
“They swore it was just a financial leverage play! Just enough heat to make you sign off on the Port Elizabeth shipping reallocations!”
Roman didn't move an inch.
His hand remained heavy and unyielding on Julian’s shoulder, pressing down with the steady, crushing weight of an impending executioner.
“Shipping reallocations,” Roman repeated, the words tasting like ash.
“Frank Marcone’s people from Brooklyn. You sold our New England logistics lines to the New York families for a percentage of the port revenues.”
“It was two million dollars up front!” Julian wept, tears spilling over his wire-rimmed glasses as he slumped forward against the mahogany table.
“Marcone said your era was over, that the commission was shifting power back to the five families, and that if I didn't cooperate, my family would end up in the Hudson River!”
Arthur Vance stepped forward, his face dark with suppressed fury, his hand twitching dangerously near his holster.
“You traded your boss's life—and nearly burned a three-year-old child alive—for two million dollars in Brooklyn blood money?” Arthur snarled, stepping up as if he intended to drag Julian across the table by his silk tie.
“Stop, Arthur,” Roman commanded, his voice cold, flat, and absolute.
He straightened up slowly, removing his hand from Julian’s shoulder as if the man’s skin were contaminated.
“We don't kill him here,” Roman said, his dark eyes sweeping over the terrified faces of the other estate managers sitting around the table.
“We let him live long enough to send a very specific message back to Frank Marcone.”
Julian looked up, hope briefly flaring in his tear-stained eyes.
“You’re... you’re letting me go?”
“Arthur,” Roman instructed without looking back at his chief of security.
“Take Julian down to the holding cells. Strip him of his accounts, his phones, and his clothes. Then, give him a burner phone with a pre-dialed connection to Marcone’s private desk in Brooklyn.”
Roman leaned down slightly, staring directly into Julian’s dilated pupils.
“You are going to call Marcone, Julian. You are going to tell him that the fire in the Westchester shed was a complete success, that Roman DeLuca is dead and buried, and that you are ready to hand over the keys to the Port Elizabeth docks.”
Julian blinked, dumbfounded.
“You want me to... to lie to him?”
“No,” Roman’s mouth stretched into a chilling, humorless smile.
“I want you to invite him to a victory dinner here at the estate tomorrow night. Tell him we’ll celebrate the transition of power over aged scotch in the main courtyard.”
Julian swallowed hard, the horrifying reality of what Roman was orchestrating finally dawning upon him.
“And when he gets here...?”
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“When he gets here,” Roman said softly, stepping back and gesturing to the guards, “he’ll find out what happens when someone burns my cedar shed and touches a child in my house.”
Two guards hauled Julian out of his chair, dragging him out of the drawing room toward the subterranean cells while his frantic, muffled protests echoed down the marble hallway.
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