Chapter 9 - The Trap is Set and the Brooklyn Arrival
The following evening, the autumn fog had thickened into a dense, soup-like shroud that swallowed the grand stone facade of the DeLuca manor in a ghostly gray embrace.
Inside the main courtyard, beneath the flickering amber glow of the wrought-iron carriage lamps, a long mahogany dining table had been set up under the open sky.
It was laid out with heavy silver candelabras, crystal decanters of twenty-five-year-old scotch, and fine porcelain dinnerware—a grand, ostentatious display of wealth, power, and untouchable arrogance.
At the head of the table sat Roman DeLuca, wearing a dark bespoke suit, smoking a Cuban cigar with absolute, terrifying calm.
Standing directly behind his right shoulder was Arthur Vance, his hand resting comfortably inside his coat near a customized Sig Sauer.
At 8:00 p.m. sharp, the crunch of heavy tires echoed up the grand gravel driveway.
A convoy of three black Lincoln Navigators swept through the open security gates without stopping, parking in a tight semicircle around the courtyard dining table.
The doors flew open.
Frank Marcone—the legendary, silver-haired boss of the Brooklyn families—stepped out into the crisp night air, flanked by six towering bodyguards wearing dark overcoats and matching scowls.
Marcone looked around the courtyard, taking in the grand table, the blazing carriage lamps, and Roman sitting casually at the head.
A broad, confident smirk spread across Marcone’s weathered face.
“Well, well, well,” Marcone bellowed, stepping forward with his arms spread wide in a mock gesture of affection.
“They told me the great Roman DeLuca was roasted like a pig in his own garden shed earlier this week! And yet, here you are, smoking a cigar like nothing happened.”
Roman didn't stand up.
He slowly removed the cigar from his lips, exhaling a thin, blue stream of smoke into the foggy night air.
“Reports of my demise were slightly exaggerated, Frank,” Roman replied, his voice dripping with venomous ice.
“Though I must admit, your boy Julian Cross made a very enthusiastic attempt at a barbecue.”
Marcone’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, laughing heartily as he pulled out a chair opposite Roman and sat down uninvited.
“Julian is an ambitious kid,” Marcone chuckled, pouring himself a finger of scotch from the crystal decanter on the table.
“He told me the Westchester territory was ripe for a hostile takeover. But I told him right from the start—you don't come after Roman DeLuca without paying the toll.”
Marcone leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his eyes narrowing into cold, predatory slits.
“So let’s stop playing games, Roman. You’re sitting alone in the dark, your internal security is compromised, and my men control the Port Elizabeth shipping lanes as of this morning. Hand over the Westchester deeds, sign the waterfront transfer papers, and I’ll let you retire peacefully to Florida.”
Roman looked at him for three long, agonizing seconds.
Then, he let out a low, humorless chuckle.
“Florida?” Roman asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Frank, you really don't understand where you are, do you?”
Marcone frowned, glancing around the empty courtyard.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about property values, Frank,” Roman said smoothly, tapping the ash off his cigar into a crystal tray.
“Real estate in Westchester is expensive. Especially when you factor in the cleanup costs.”
Before Marcone could formulate a reply, the heavy iron security gates at the end of the long gravel drive slammed shut with a resounding metallic crash.
Simultaneously, the floodlights ringing the perimeter walls clicked off, plunging the outer grounds into absolute darkness—replaced instantly by the red and blue strobes of twelve unmarked police cruisers and four tactical assault vans that materialized out of the fog, blocking every possible exit from the estate.
Marcone bolted out of his chair, his face turning the color of chalk.
“What is this?!” Marcone roared, looking at Roman in sheer panic.
“Federal marshals! State police! Did you call the feds, you insane bastard?!”
“No, Frank,” Roman said, standing up slowly from his chair, towering over the Brooklyn boss with absolute, terrifying authority.
“I didn't call the feds. I called the New York Attorney General’s office and handed over every single encrypted financial record Julian Cross tried to upload to your Brooklyn servers.”
Roman stepped around the table, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of Marcone.
“Your offshore accounts are frozen. Your smuggling tunnels in New Jersey are currently being raided by federal agents. And your six bodyguards?”
Roman gestured casually toward the perimeter wall.
May you like
Arthur Vance and twenty tactical operatives stepped out of the shadows, their assault rifles leveled squarely at Marcone’s men, who dropped their weapons to the gravel without a fight.
“They’re currently wondering how their pension plans are going to hold up in federal prison,” Roman finished quietly.
